


Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)

by ANTchan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Elect, Alpha by necessity, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beta Derek Hale, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Has Friends, Derek Hale is a (mostly) functional adult, Dom/sub Undertones, Full Shift Werewolves, Future Fic, Human Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Knotting, M/M, Minor Danny Mahealani/Stiles Stilinski, Pack Dynamics, Slow Build, Stiles Stilinski Doesn't Know About Werewolves, Stiles did not sign up for this, Versatile Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Derek, long titles for the author's amusement, nonbinary Scott McCall, vague attempts at a murder mystery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:11:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANTchan/pseuds/ANTchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills’ serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter’s snare? That one he’s not sure about.</p><p>An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is the road to ruin (and we’re starting at the end)

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic came from reading a lot of fanfiction, watching only one and a half seasons of the actual show, and listening to a Fall Out Boy album while plotting the fic. I would apologize, but I'm not actually that sorry. Enjoy!

 --------------------1---------------------

 

Waking up to his father clutching his (latest) dirty little secret in his hands is always the start of a very bad week. After a long, successful teenage career of hiding his porn stash from his father, you’d think Stiles could’ve prevented this. And yet, Sheriff Stilinski (because there’s no calling him Dad when he has the _Sheriff_ expression on) is here, standing in his apartment holding a very specific redwell folder in his hands. It’s not his porn stash. At this point, Stiles _wishes_ it’s his porn stash.

“Really, kid?”

This… is not how Stiles wants to start his morning. Afternoon. What time is it?

“Uh. Morning, Dad.”

His father’s expression doesn’t even twitch. A bad sign. A huge, neon bad sign. “It’s seven.”

Stiles lurches clean off the couch that he doesn’t remember falling asleep on. Or would have, if he’d managed to get his feet under him. What it turns out to be is a blur of flailing limbs as he slips sideways into the space between the beaten up sofa and the coffee table, sending a shower of incriminating papers and glossy photos with him. He’s up in an instant, knocking into the table with a muttered curse as he hurries to gather up the papers – and maybe shove them under the couch, who knows, it might work. He might be able to convince his dad he didn’t see anything--

“Stiles.”

“Look, Dad, m’sorry I slept in and all, I’ll be ready for work in just a sec, I promise--“

“Stiles.”

“I just got caught up last night and--“

“It’s seven _in the evening,_ Stiles. You completely missed your shift.”

Stiles’ hands freeze in their mad dash to clean up, his rapidly beating heart dropping into his stomach. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh.’” Sheriff Stilinski holds his gaze for a moment, before heaving an all-too-familiar sigh and moving to sit on the couch. It’s the same sigh he uses when he catches Stiles doing something he shouldn’t. Like poking through the police files or drinking out in the woods or coming out of _The Jungle_  - all before he’d hit the age of 18.

It’s the universal sigh of parental disappointment and exasperation.

At 23, after moving away for college and coming out of the police academy and you know, the general independent-living-on-his own thing, Stiles thinks he should be immune to it. That just one sigh wouldn’t make his insides shrivel and tie themselves in knots.

“So,” Stilinski begins, and there’s so much intent loaded into that one word that Stiles wonders how easy it would be fit under the couch and pretend he doesn’t exist. “So. The Alpha case.” The Sheriff plucks the stack of reports and glossy evidence photos from his son’s hands. “Again.”

“Dad…”

“You need to let this go, Stiles.”

The shame and dread in Stiles’ veins gives way to but molten irritation. “You-- like _you_ haven’t ever had a case before that was _your baby_ , Dad.“

The photos land on the table with a slap, fanning out in what is probably an unintentionally dramatic motion.

It’s all pretty gruesome – a swath of brutal maulings in 2011. In the beginning it was believed that a rabid, large – very large – animal had wandered into Beacon Hills. The first victim, Laura Hale, had been killed out in the Preserve, and the second, Garrison Myers, had been killed in town but still late at night when hypothetical rabid mountain lions (the favorite animal theory at the time) could be prowling. But after the first two killings, things had taken a turn for the weird. The attacks started happening indoors – in places where no wild animal, no matter how feral, would dare to hunt – and in ways that no animal could. In a video rental store. In the basement of the local high school. Victims five and six had been stuffed inside a burning barrel out in the Preserve after being mauled. Adrian Harris had been killed inside his locked office. Jennifer Kisler, long term care nurse at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, had been found in her own trunk two days after her patient, Peter Hale, had gone suddenly - and suspiciously - died of complications. Victims ten through twelve had been killed inside the old Hale house, out in the Preserve again. But the thirteenth and final victim, Kate Argent, had only one wound - a single, very deliberate clawed gash across her throat.

And then it had just stopped. Two months of gore and terror and then nothing. No evidence, no leads. Not even a reliable witness. There were a _lot_ of things about the case that weren’t right. It had baffled the BHSD at the time and _completely_ fascinated Stiles.

It's become his _baby._

And yeah, so sometimes he gets a little too invested in it. So maybe the first time he’d heard about one of the victims he’d had the bright idea to convince Scott to go out into the Preserve… at night… when there was possibly an incredibly bold predator or a very bloodthirsty human out there… to look for the other half of Laura Hale’s body.

Okay, so _maybe_ it wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. But his dad had found them and they returned home safe and sound. If grounded for the rest of their natural lives.

And his dad is glaring at him. Stiles has drifted off again.

“ _What--?_ ”

“It’s not your ‘baby,’ kid. A cop’s pet case is a delicate balancing act. This? This is your _obsession_. It has been since it started – _when you weren’t a cop and shouldn’t have been within twenty yards of this case, mind you,_ ” he adds as Stiles opens his mouth for the inevitable protest. Stiles still flails his hands in gestures that he hopes come off as offended and defiant as he feels. “I’ve already almost lost you to this once, Stiles.”

And that… damn. What the hell is Stiles supposed to say to that?

“That was… no, look, Dad. It’s really not like that this time.” At his father’s deadpan stare, he raises his hands in protest. “What? It’s not!”

“Uh-huh. So you _didn’t_ go into a hyperfocus and forget to take care of yourself.”

“Daaaaaad, no.”

“How long did you go without sleep until you crashed last night, Stiles?”

“Just… not more than 48 hours…” His mild disapproval intensifies into full on parental criticism and Stiles _winces_.

“And when’s the last time you ate something--“ Stiles _totally_ has an answer for that, he really does. But before he can even open his mouth (which, damn, his dad is quick on the draw with that), the Sheriff points an accusing finger his way. “-- _that wasn’t Slim Jims or Cheetos?_ ”

“…Um.”

“Right. I thought so. So, son, here’s what’s going to happen.” His father leans over, gathering up the case reports and evidence photos in one well-practiced swoop. He taps the pile sharply on his knee to straighten it, the action punctuating the frankly unnerving smile that’s working its way onto his face. “This? This is mine now. You, kiddo, are officially banned from the Alpha case.”

“ _What?_ You can’t--!”

“But I _can._ See, I’m not only your father, I’m your boss. And I can’t have one of my deputies working his way into a trip to the emergency room over a cold case. So.” The Sheriff stands, tucking the redwell under his arm. “You’re off the case. Mandatory leave until next Monday.”

“Dad!”

“ _And_ ,” Stilinski speaks over him, “you already have plans. Big plans. Your friends have booked a cabin out in Lassen. Sounds like it’s going to be a lot of fun.”

Stiles grabs the pillow off the sofa and throws it in sheer frustration as comprehension dawns on him. “You and _Scott_ \-- was this an intervention?!” He’s going to have words with his so-called brother. Many of them. And none of them nice.

“An intervention implies you have a choice, Stiles. This isn’t a come-to-the-light talk. This is an order. You’re off the case and are going to take a damned break.” And with that, the Sheriff turns towards the door with the folder tucked safely under his arm. “Really, kid,” he shoots back over his shoulder, “if you couldn’t even hide your porn stash from me in high school how did you think you were going to hide this from me?”

Please let the floor open up and swallow him.

“I know where you keep your junk food!” he shouts back, still cringing.

“No, you don’t. Nice try.” The door shuts with a resounding click, but Stiles can just barely see his father’s too-smug grin before it does.

He snatches his phone off the table, fingers tapping too roughly as he messages Scott.

_Ur a dirty traitor._

_Talk w/ Dad go good then? :) Ur gonna like the cabin! Ill bring curly fries and the brochure._

“Goddamnit, Scott, I’m trying to be pissed at you.”

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

Derek Hale isn’t a stranger to the buzzing itch at the base of his skull. It’s been there for years, and has only served to remind him of the tangible loss of his Pack, his distance from Laura, and the absence of his sister after her death. It’s the hollow feeling of being Omega. Alone. But recently, the buzz will intensify into an ache, and then a pull, and then a compulsion to return to Beacon Hills. To return to the place that had once been home, and has ended up being the graveyard of everyone Derek Hale has ever cared about.

Derek’s returned exactly once since his family home had burnt to the ground: to pick up his Uncle Peter’s belongings and make arrangements for Laura’s burial. That was six years ago. And the entire time he’d been in that small forest-bound town, his skin had been crawling. There wasn’t a single corner of the town that didn’t remind him of death – that didn’t trick his senses into smelling cooking meat and burning hair and stale, spilled blood.

There are no good memories left in Beacon Hills. Only death and loss. Wanting to go back there isn’t something he can rationally explain.

But this time it isn’t a simple urge to travel to his hometown. Today it isn’t even a pull.

Today it feels like the breath has been sucked from his lungs. Like he’s been hit in the chest by a speeding car, and it’s hard enough that Derek’s knees buckle and he barely manages to keep himself from dropping to the floor. The second wave finishes the job, sending Derek to the floor of his kitchen gasping for air and his mind a frenzy of _‘Come back. Come back. Beacon Hills. Come to me.’_

He knows what that means. That isn’t a simple compulsion formed from loss and grief.

_‘COME TO ME.’_

This is an Alpha asserting their will.

Derek comes to himself again, shaking on the blissfully cool kitchen floor. He doesn’t know if it’s been seconds or an hour. His body aches, every nerve-ending screaming to obey the siren’s call of an Alpha. And that’s when the panic sets in. Derek doesn’t _have_ an Alpha. Derek doesn’t even have _a Pack_. After Laura’s death, Derek made sure of that. He’s an Omega and an unknown Alpha _shouldn’t_ be able to exert that kind of will over him from across the country. The conclusion that leaves is not a good one. His mind races, searching for another, _any other_ solution. There isn’t one.

The only Alpha who could call him from such a distance is Laura. And with Laura dead, that ability falls to… the one who killed her.

The Alpha who murdered the only loved one he had left is calling him to Beacon Hills.

Derek retches into the sink. His body yearns to heed the call, even though his mind repeatedly tries to wrestle control back. There are only two things the Alpha can want him for. Either they want to kill Derek just like they had Laura, and definitively take Beacon Hills from the traditional Hale territory… or they want to force Derek to join their Pack.

It means death, either way. _Beacon Hills_ means death either way. Because he’d rather die than join this Alpha.

But maybe… that’s fitting.

The thought stops Derek dead in the middle of his trek to the couch, throat suddenly too tight to breathe.

It would be fitting. He could go back to the place where his most of his Pack met their ends and join them one way or another. He wouldn’t be alone anymore. He wouldn’t be Omega. He could finally make things even for what he’d done. Maybe it’s how things should be…

“No,” he croaks.  He’s worked so hard not to think like that anymore.  “No.” Derek shakes his head to clear it, grabbing a blanket from the cabinet and lying down on the couch, tucking it around him like a protective shield against the pull still clawing at him. He expects it to only get worse, as powerful as the Alpha’s call is. But he has no other choice. He’s severed ties with everyone Laura allied them with. And Ceri is gone. They’ll be in Chicago for at least a few weeks more.  Ric and the others, while well-meaning, don’t have the power to save him from this either.

He’s alone in this, but that’s not really a surprise.

Derek is used to it. He’ll handle it alone, like he always has.

That’s the last time Derek gets any real sleep. The pain only gets worse over the next day. Derek locks himself in his apartment, barely moving from bed during the worst of it. At the end of the second day he comes to sweating and shaking on the floor by the front door. The day after he finds himself a block from his apartment building. He can’t remember how he got there, only knows that his very _bones_ ache from the Alpha’s call.

He sprints back to his apartment, and uses wolfsbane-soaked ropes to block all the doors and windows. He doesn’t remember what happens after that.

The next time Derek “wakes,” his hands are blistered and burned and smell of wolfsbane, and he’s driving the Camaro down an unknown highway. He almost crashes the car, and it’s only after he stops panicking that he has the chance to take inventory of where he is. There’s a duffel bag in the passenger’s seat that has a couple changes of clothes and other essentials. He doesn’t remember packing. His phone tells him he’s an hour from the Pennsylvania-Ohio border on the I-80.

Derek turns the car around.

He makes it all the way into New York City. This time he feels the Alpha’s call coming just before he blacks out.

And wakes up in Iowa. At a gas station with a seriously dubious looking hotdog in his hand, which is more terrifying than the fucking Alpha. He throws it away, ignoring his growling stomach.

He spends the next few days (or what he thinks is the next few days) in the most futile battle of wills. Several times he tries to turn around and go back to New York, only to lose time again. And again. And each time Derek wakes, he finds that he’s a little further westward. No matter how far he doubles back, he loses more and more distance with every blackout.

Until, finally, Derek wakes up in a hotel room.

He doesn’t even have to check his phone to know where he is. The window is cracked, letting in the crisp autumn air that is thick with the scent of a very particular forest. His throat closes up at the first hint of it, the smell of fallen leaves and dense vegetation only translating as death and rot and the phantom smell of burning flesh. Grief chokes him, sits hollow in his chest, and hopelessness wells up to fill the void. He’s in Beacon Hills. None of his attempts to break free have worked, and there’s no way he can make it out before the Alpha asserts his will again.

There’s no escape now. There’s nothing but death awaiting him here.

Derek sinks into the chair by the window, lowers his face into his hands, and waits. When the next call comes some time later, he doesn’t resist.

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

 

“You’re not supposed to go behind my back and team up with Dad, dude! You’re the Hufflepuff in this friendship. You’re not allowed to be sneaky!”

“ _Hufflepuff--_ I’m at least a Gryffindor.”

“Scotty, you’re the perfect combo of kindness and Disney Princess and puppy eyes. Totally a Hufflepuff.”

Derek blinks into consciousness, the voices cutting through the haze like a white hot blade. All at once Derek’s assaulted with the sounds and smells of the Beacon Hills Preserve, the conditioned scent of rot only offset by the scents of the humans trudging through the leaves nearby. They’re not hunters, even though one of them smells faintly like gunpowder underneath a prevailing scent of sweet wood smoke. The other smells softly floral, and under that, sterilizers and herbs and something nameless and sharp.

They aren’t likely a danger to him. But even still, Derek’s hackles are raised as he rounds the hill towards them. They don’t notice he’s there at all. The two men seem young – too young. Or just unburdened. Derek isn’t sure. The one on left is tall, gangly – limbs looking too long and too thin under his baggy clothes. There’s a smattering of marks over one pale cheek, his eyes large and darting and an upturn tilt to his nose. He’s gesturing wildly as he talks to the man on the right – who is slightly shorter and stockier than the first. This one’s skin is a soft gold, a slight unevenness to the cut of his jaw, and everything about his face is soft and open.

Eventually the first man looks up, jolting violently as they lock eyes and his arm swinging out to smack his friend right in the chest. They both turn to him, making a stupid amount of noise as they disturb the fallen leaves. “What are you doing out here?” Derek growls at them, pacing forwards. “This is private property.” The words are out of his mouth before he can even think about them, but it’s true, Derek realizes. He can feel that he is safely in Hale territory. It’s still strong, even after twelve years. It’s chill inducing. It’s wrong.

And maybe that’s why the Alpha called him here. If they want the territory, killing the last remaining Hale would be the easiest method.

“Uh, sorry man, we didn’t know,” the taller one is saying. He’s rubbing at his hair, making it stick up in absurd little spikes, his other hand tapping at his thigh and just _fidgeting_ uncontrollably.

“Yeah,” the shorter adds, shifting from foot to foot. The flowery scent is coming from him, Derek realizes. A perfume, but faint and gentle even to Derek’s hypersensitive nose. “We were just passing through. Sorry…”

Derek doesn’t grace them with an answer. Just glares at them hard enough that both humans seem to shrink back a bit. And then he turns around and makes his way back through the leaf covered forest floor. He needs to go back to the house, no matter how much the thought of it makes his stomach churn. Even being within a hundred yards of the burnt out husk of his home is too much for Derek. But there’s something he needs there. Something that could be his last chance to resist the Alpha’s call. At least for a little while longer.

“Dude, that was Derek Hale!” The voice drifts back to him when he’s out of view of the human men, and far enough away that their voices are soft to even his ears. Derek stops, tilting his head back to catch the sound. “You don’t remember? His family? They all burned to death in that big fire twelve years ago.” Derek flinches, the smell of rot all around him swelling in that moment into something that’s almost too much to handle. “I used to see him around town with his family sometimes. Man, he grew up pretty. Not that he wasn’t pretty when he was a teenager. But that? Wow. Sign me up for _that_.”

That halts the panic of Derek’s thoughts. His mouth thins into an irritated frown and eyes drifting towards the sky just as he hears the human’s friend echo his own silent response. “ _Really, dude?_ ”

“What? I can’t notice a hot piece of ass-- speaking of:  _did you see that ass?_ ”

He doesn’t wait to listen for anything more. Derek rolls his eyes, before starting off at a sprint. He’s got far more important things to think about than a gangly human with wandering eyes.

 

\--------------------4---------------------

 

Derek “too pretty to handle” Hale and his unbelievable ass are long out of sight, which is a shame, but Scott’s expression – torn between exasperation and laughter – almost makes up for it. “Seriously, dude,” he repeats, making grabby gestures just at ass-height for obscene emphasis. “ _Did you see it?_ How could you _miss_ it in those tight jeans, sweet Christ. You think he needs to lube himself up before he gets into--“

Scott finally breaks into laughter. “Alright, _alright_ I get it!”

“No, no, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you can understand my severe sexual frustration on account of your very happy relationship with the lovely Miss Yukimura. And you know what? I _think_ after being subjected to your frankly disturbing play-by-plays of how perfect she is _mid coitus_ ,” Stiles throws an extra trill into the word, just to watch Scott blanch, “it’s high time I give as good as I get. So would you like to hear exactly what I would do to that ass if given half a chance? Or let him do to my ass? Hmmm?”

“Would it… make you feel better about me and Dad making you go on this trip?”

“No, but it’d be a start.” He holds up thumb and forefinger, squeezing them close together. “A teeny, barely there start.” He has to look away from Scott’s ridiculous puppy eyes. Has to, or else he’ll crack.

“Well,” Scott pipes up, shuffling through the leaves beside him, “get all your fantasizing out now. That guy? Not a good choice.” He’s glancing back the way Hale went, and the troubled recognition on his face brings Stiles to a complete halt.

“What? Hey, you said you didn’t know him.”

“I didn’t say that, dude. I didn’t know that was _Derek Hale_. I’ve seen him before though. In 2011, when you… you know, had your thing.” He gestures vaguely, needlessly, even if his false casual tone has the air between them cooling solemnly. “He was there. He called the ambulance.”

“He _what?_ He seriously--“ Stiles whirls on heel, eyes searching the horizon to see if he can catch even the faintest glimpse of the man now. _Holy shit_. “A guy that hot saved my life and _you never told me?_ Scott, breach of good brother code here!”

Scott shrugs, and seriously, that is _no way to act when dropping this kind of very important information!_ “He didn’t stick around. He got you lying down before you really started getting bad and called an ambulance. He barely even stayed to answer the EMT’s questions. Didn’t give his name or anything. Just thought he was a good guy until… well, now. Now I’m glad I didn’t say anything.”

“Glad you didn’t--“ Stiles parrots back at him, flailing his hands at the indignity of it all. “Scott that man is _hot like burning_ and you never told me? I could have been all up in that years ago! Scottttttt.”

“He’s Derek _Hale_ ,” Scott bites the name out with a kind of bitterness Stiles doesn’t hear often from him. “If you’d actually met him back then you would’ve made yourself even worse.” The hesitant look Scott fixes him with then sends a chill down his spine. “Still could happen.” There’s a moment of dead, awkward silence where Stiles valiantly tries to come up with a denial that Scott will believe. But then his best friend smiles. “Maybe it’s a good thing he’s way out of your league.”

And _that_ is something Stiles can handle. Teasing and sarcasm are the universal languages of the McCall-Stilinski Brotherhood of Awesome, after all. “What?” he gasps dramatically. “What about me would he _not_ be interested in?”

“Hmmm. I dunno. All… that, I guess.”

“Dude, you just gestured at all of me.”

Scott laughs at him as he diverts course, not quite heading back the way they came, but moving definitively out of “Hale territory.” (Stiles almost asks him not to, if it’ll mean he’ll get to encounter the grumpy, unbelievably hot, and now highly _intriguing_ Mister Hale again.)

“No, no but seriously, Scott. Scott! He’d totally go for this.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Why not? Enlighten me, oh-wise-one.”

Scott’s eyes are sparkling as he glances at him over his shoulder. “Because you’re attracted to him.” He leaves that hanging in the air just long enough for Stiles to take an indignant breath, before continuing. “You like them really pretty, scary-smart, a little bit mean, and way out of your league.”

Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “Name _one_ \--”

“Lydia.”

“Okay, fair. But that’s--”

“Danny.”

That one didn’t _exactly_ count, because Stiles has, in fact, gotten some of that. But the occasional, casual thing that sometimes happens with him and Danny couldn’t be called Danny “totally going for him” either. “I’ll give you that one on technicality.”

“That one girl you met on our first day of college. What was her name again? Marsha…?”

“Marilyn. Marilyn Beattie.”

Scott’s actually starting to look smug now. “And then there was that guy at the Academy that you tripped all over yourself trying to impress--”

“Alright, enough! I actually _don’t_ fail utterly at the whole relationship thingthing, dude. You can’t just pick and choose certain ones!”

“I know. I’m just saying that the people you act like that for? They’re not the best people for you. They don’t respect you nearly enough to deserve you.”

“Aw, man.” Leave it to Scott to turn teasing into something earnest and sweet. Stiles doesn’t even know how to respond to that, except for with an exasperated, “You’re a dork, Scotty.”

“Yeah, I guess…” His friend’s voice trails off suddenly, uncertain. His steps falter for the briefest second. Frowning, Stiles peers around him, only to see Scott fidgeting with his nails, chipping away at the soft, pale pink nail polish that’s been there for a few days now. Picking it off is usually a rite he saves for Stiles in his more jittery moods.

Oh.

“Hey, Scotty, don’t worry about it. He probably didn’t see. And even if he _did_ , there’s nothing wrong with it. Okay?"

“He was kind of a jerk…” Scott mutters.

He reaches over to grab Scott’s hands before he can do any more damage. Scott had spent most of their bro night getting it perfect! “Then he’s a fucking dickbag. Don’t mess up your badass nails.”

Scott levels him with a downright huffy stare. “Stiles, they’re pink. Not badass.”

“Pink is _totally_ badass! Don’t let Lydia hear you say it isn’t. Come on, you worked really hard on them. They look really nice!”

That seems to get Scott to relent, his face flushing gently. “Okay. Thanks, dude.”

“We can head back to your place and you can fix them after lunch!”

“Yeah?” The line of Scott’s shoulders relax.

They walk in silence for a few more minutes, until Stiles can’t take it anymore.

“But I could totally get him if I tried, right?”

“Totally, dude. He wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Hell yeah!”

 

\----------------------------------------- 

**END CHAPTER 1.**


	2. I’m just a problem that doesn’t wanna be solved (so could you please hold your applause)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is okay with being slightly third wheel. He really is. But this... this is too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and comments, and who bookmarked and subscribed to this fic. :) You're all wonderful. ALL OF YOU.
> 
> No special warnings for this chapter, other than there is a little bit of Danny/Stiles, mostly via Stiles wanting to tap that.

\--------------------1---------------------

 

Stiles is okay with being slightly third wheel. He really is. It’s a sign of his maturity (or progress towards something like it) that he doesn’t react to Scott being totally and disgustingly in love with quiet, simmering jealousy anymore. Scott dating his first and forever true love, Allison Argent, had been a trying time in high school, just one more thing on top of the shit pile for Stiles.

It probably helps that Stiles actually likes Kira.

(Which isn’t exactly fair to Allison, because other than the sudden heartbreak Scott went through when they broke up, there wasn’t anything about Allison that Stiles actually hated. Sophomore year is just a shitstorm for everybody, okay? No one is their moral best in sophomore year.)

But Kira - Kira he likes. He likes Kira _with_ Scott. While Scott is completely in love with her, it’s tempered from the borderline obsession that Scott McCall In Love has exhibited in the past (read: Allison Argent). They’re still so sickeningly enamored with each other that Stiles wants to gag, but hey, that’s love. That’s these two adorable idiots in love.

But being stuck in the backseat with only the luggage for company while the two lovebirds giggle and sing and flirt for two and a half hours is well past what he can take. About halfway through he stops trying to engage in conversation, instead using whatever signal he has left to dick around on his phone. The knowledge that he’s going to be spending an extended weekend as a joint fifth wheel with Danny hasn’t done much for his mood. And griping about the trip repeatedly only gets him the combined force of not only Scott’s puppy eyes, but Kira’s. And that’s just a weapon that shouldn’t be released upon the world.

It’d be a lot more enjoyable of a trip if Danny had just let Stiles ride with him out to the cabin. But Danny’s tolerance for Stiles has always been shaky at best - fluctuating regularly between annoyance and exasperation, and _occasionally_ tolerating him long enough for them both to get off. Stiles doesn’t really blame him for that, though. He’s well aware that he isn’t the kind of person that even a great guy like Danny can like 100% of the time. Or even 50% of the time. Still, he’s going to promise Danny the best road head he’s ever gotten if he can just ride with him on the return trip.

_You’ve got to let me ride with you on the way back._

Stiles taps the message out on his phone quickly, only considering it for a moment before sending more.

 _Danny._  
_Danny I’m serious._  
_I will give you the best dick sucking of your life._  
_Danny  
_ _Daaaannny_

_Shut the fuck up Stilinski I’m driving_

_No texting and driving, Danny!  
_ _That’s illegal in the state of California. I could give you a ticket for that._

 _Stilinski I swear to god  
_ _I’m using voice to text idiot_

 _Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel!  
_ _Just remember that when I’m giving you head on the way back. ;)_

He waits, but there’s no response after that. He sends a few more texts, half out of spite, half out of a need for entertainment. Danny doesn’t text back - which is good! Good and safe. Stiles gently tosses his phone onto the top of his bag.

The last forty-five minutes are pretty damned torturous. They turn off the highway into the shadowed lanes that cut through the forest, which are winding and completely canopied by the trees above. It’s kind of cool - kind of fascinating and creepy - for about the first fifteen minutes. After that it’s just the same dense tree line zooming past the window. The satellite radio cuts in and out enough that Scott flicks it off, effectively killing the last distraction Stiles has.

Stiles slides down in his seat, a rough sigh ripping free from his mouth before he can stop it. “I hope Jackson gets mud all over his stupid Porsche.”

Kira peers at him from over the seat, all wide-eyed and hesitant sunshine. “You okay?” He really wishes he could be annoyed at her.

“Fine, fine. Absolutely… fine.”

He catches Scott grinning at him in the rearview mirror. “He’s just pouting because we made him go on this trip when he’d rather have his nose stuck in his case file.”

Just to be spiteful, Stiles delivers a swift kick to the back of the driver’s seat. Scott only laughs at him. Jerk.

They come upon their rented cabin eventually, and Stiles finds that it’s more like a gigantic cabin _mansion_ in the damned forest. Three stories tall with wide verandas and balconies, and with just enough space in the clearing that it was obvious the builders took special care in not disturbing the forest around it.

The scent of _money_ is so strong that Stiles can practically smell it from inside the car.

Scott pulls the car up alongside the cabin, Jackson calling dibs on the garage on account of him and his asshole car, and Danny pulling up behind him in his much more sensible SUV. It’s only when Scott taps on his window that Stiles realizes he’s the last one to get out. Heaving a sigh, Stiles wrenches the door open, glaring up at the cabin with an inordinate amount of spite. “I thought your family had a lake house,” he calls to Lydia, who’s standing with Jackson and Danny in front of the cabin, absently putting her (perfectly curled, strawberry-blonde) hair back into order. “Why do we need a big ass cabin?”

“We can go to the lake house anytime,” she answers crisply. “I wanted something new.”

“You wanted to spend money,” Stiles grumbles. She isn’t paying attention to him anymore, not surprising. She’s already pointing Jackson in the direction of unloading their bags from Danny’s SUV. “Just wanted to spend money on a cabin mansion. Where you’ve all got your own rooms and are going to spend the entire weekend doing the nasty where we all can hear it.” He rounds on Scott just as his best friend starts laughing. “And you are too! Don’t even try to lie, asshole!”

“Stilinski, shut the fuck up and pull your weight!” Stiles barely has time to turn before a duffel bag is being shoved into his torso. He lets out a winded ‘oof!’, almost stumbling into Scott as Jackson brushes past him. His irritation jumps few more notches. Oh yeah, this forced vacation is going to be _great._

If someone had told him in high school that he’d come to count Jackson, Danny, and Lydia among his circle of close friends, Stiles would have laughed at them. By all logic it was something that should never have happened. But Scott had been dating Allison at the time, who was best friends with Lydia, who was dating Jackson, who was best friends with Danny. It was a chain of acquaintances that, by high school logic, meant that the six of them would sit together at lunch or sometimes hang out because Lydia wanted a double date and neither Jackson nor Scott wanted to go through it without their best friend buffer of choice.

And then the Alpha killings happened. And by the end of sophomore year half of their “clique” had gone through the worst kind of emotional bullshit because of it. Jackson and Lydia had near simultaneous nervous breakdowns, ending in a nasty breakup and Jackson being withdrawn from Beacon Hills High altogether for an extended recovery in London. Allison grew ever more distant until she and her family left the summer between sophomore and junior year, breaking Scott’s heart along the way. That should have been the end of their little web of friendship. But Lydia stayed, and so did Danny. And when Jackson finally returned to Beacon Hills at the start of their senior year, he slotted himself back into their fold acting for all the world like he’d never left. And it sort of… stayed that way. All through going to separate colleges and even living in separate cities for a few years. Weekly Skype hangouts were a thing. Kira joined them along the way, first as a teammate on the lacrosse team and then as closer friends at Berkeley before she and Scott started dating.

So they’re friends. Pretty good friends, even though they annoy the piss out of each other sometimes. Like right now - when they strong arm him into going to a luxury cabin in the woods to be co-fifth wheel all in the name of “his health.”

Right now Stiles kind of wants to strangle all of them. And because they’re friends, _none of them are threatened by this fact_. And instead take quiet glee in it.

Stiles is quick to claim a bedroom on the far end of the second floor. It’s not isolated from the rest of the rooms, but there’s enough distance that he hopes he won’t have to listen to his friends getting freaky. Maybe if he’s extra lucky Danny will take one of the other rooms on the second floor and the lovebirds would take rooms on the third. It would certainly make slipping into Danny’s room, or Danny slipping into his, much easier.

If Danny’s even up to sleeping with him over the weekend, that is. Sometimes it happens. And Danny is awesome and pretty damned attractive and casual, friendly sex with him is always a fun time. But sometimes Danny just doesn’t feel it (read: finds Stiles too annoying) during the times when Stiles is up for rekindling that occasional benefit of their friendship.

Stiles really hopes Danny’s feeling it this time. To his great pleasure, Danny does take one of the other rooms on the second floor. Stiles spends about fifteen minutes trying to get his attention, communicating his silent questions in not-so-subtle eyebrow waggles and seductive grins. Danny rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t actually turn him down.

Which means getting laid is something he could be doing this weekend.

Forced vacation almost saved.

Almost.

It goes pretty well after that. Stiles takes a chance to explore the spacious cabin while Kira and Jackson go to pick up groceries for the weekend, and his mood starts to settle. It’s actually a _really nice_ cabin. Big screen TV, huge verandas on the first and second floors, a hot tub, a pool table, breathtaking views of the forest… it’s luxurious and simple all at once.

By late afternoon, Stiles has made peace with the idea of spending a long weekend out the in the woods with his friends.

Or at least he _had_ made peace with it. And then Lydia marches up to him, looking fierce and gorgeous as always, and holds one slender, well-manicured hand out to him. Stiles stares at it. “Uh.”

“Your phone,” Lydia chirps, twitching her fingers at him. There’s a smile on her face that is the perfect combination of kittenish and _deadly_ that only Lydia Martin can pull off. “Hand it over.”

Stiles, understandably, balks. “ _Why?_ ”

“Because you may act like one, Stiles, but you’re not an idiot.” And wow, that’s an actual compliment. A backhanded one, but he’ll take it. He can already imagine his teenaged, and obsessively infatuated, self nearly fainting at the very idea. “You have at least some of the case files on your phone, or are planning to hack into your work computer from it. This is a work free zone. So hand it over.”

“Lydia. Lyds--”

But her smile only sharpens. She may have spent most of their high school years pretending to be a high-society airhead, but Lydia Martin is terrifyingly smart and there’s nothing Stiles can do but resign himself to defeat. She’s smarter than he is, and just as crafty.

God, it’s thrilling. But he can’t admire it. Not when she’s using it for this particular brand of evil.

“No,” he bites out, phone already in hand and turning as if to curl around it protectively.

“ _Stiles._ ”

“Oh, come on!” A hand darts into his peripherals, snatching his phone right out of his hand. Stiles flails, catching Jackson – the _douchebag_ – in the shoulder with his elbow as he does. “Hey! You _fucking_ \--”

His curses go unheeded. His phone is deposited in Lydia’s slender hand and quickly stowed away in her pocket. “This stays with me. You’ll get it back when we leave.” For a moment, Stiles is so angry he can’t even speak. The words are lodged in his throat, his face hot and probably an ugly, splotchy red. Lydia only smiles at him. “Come on. We’re going to have a little bonfire on the back patio. You can take out your frustration there.” She turns, flipping her luscious strawberry-blonde hair as she goes. Jackson follows her, shooting Stiles a smug grin over his shoulder.

He wants to punch it straight off his face.

He must look it too, because Scott looks just this side of guilty when Stiles finally joins the rest of them out back. They’ve set up in a nice little nook, artfully shaded by trees and a pergola. There are cushioned benches and chairs and even a swing, which Lydia and Jackson have of course claimed for themselves, all surrounding a raised fire pit. It’s just as nice as the rest of the house and Stiles irrationally _hates_ it right now.

There’s a seat free between Scott and Danny, as far away from Lydia and Jackson as they could make it without it being obvious. (It’s obvious anyway.) He sinks down into it, and is immediately handed a beer and a lighter by Scott.

“You should probably reconsider this combination, Scotty.”

Scott grins at him. “No way, dude. You get to start the bonfire.”

“It’s not even close to sunset yet.”

“Yeah, but we’re gonna make kebabs!”

Danny takes the moment to gently elbow him. “Just start the fire, Stilinski.”

“Fine! Fine.” He stands, taking a swig of his beer. The impulse has already sprung, fully formed, into his mind. It’s nothing at all to poke at the kindling and sticks resting in the fire pit, taking advantage of the longer pause to take a second sip. Stiles clicks the lighter a couple times, watching the flame sputter from the tapered end. On the final click, he meets Lydia’s eyes first, and then flicks his gaze to Jackson with an evil grin. It’s the only warning he gives, but he sees them tensing anyway; sees Lydia opening her mouth to snap at him.

She doesn’t even have time to form the words before he sprays a fine mist of alcohol over the end of the lighter. Instant inferno, a la fire-breather. It’s only a short burst, the heat instant, but he stops and turns his head slightly away before the jet of flame can go out of control.

The shrieks of terror and outrage make the danger worth it.

“ _Stilinski, you fucker!_ ”

“ _STILES._ ”

“Not cool, man!”

Someone has a hand on the back of his shirt and is pulling him down into the seat. He doesn’t know if it’s Danny or Scott and doesn’t too much care at this point. “Thank you, thank you!” he cackles, “I’ll be here until Monday. No, seriously, because of someone I can’t leave. You’re stuck with me.”

His friends don’t seem too amused, but at this point Stiles doesn’t mind. Even Danny’s disapproving glare is met with the most shit-eating grin he can muster.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Danny asks him, voice flat. “You’re a cop, you should know better, you idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah. High combustion point, not proper for fire-breathing. I know, Danny. Relax. I knew enough not to burn my face off. And look!” Stiles waves a hand at the campfire, which is now eating its way through the kindling and smaller twigs. “Insta-fire!”

“I take it back. You’re an idiot,” Lydia bites out each word. She has her legs tucked up on the bench, still in a defensive curl. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He should feel bad about scaring her – after all, he likes Lydia. Even though his _breathtaking_ infatuation with her has faded, Stiles still loves her. Platonically, now – well, mostly platonically. They’re close. He should be feeling so very guilty about doing that.

But he doesn’t. Because he’s a bit of a sadist. “I was pointing it down at the pit, not at you. It was cool, admit it!”

“It was kind of cool,” Scott agrees softly.

“Yeah! See, Scotty’s got my back!” Stiles offers him a high five, because Scott is the best and deserves all of them. And _because_ Scott is the best, he returns it without hesitation.

That’s where it should’ve stopped. They should have just settled in for a lunch of tasty kebabs and beer, and just talked about normal things. About vacation things. But they don’t. Instead, Stiles exacts his full revenge for them trapping him here, for them taking his phone. They’ve forbidden him from actually doing work, but that doesn’t mean he can’t talk about it. So he does. He talks about new theories and possible new leads and comes up with a few of them right there on the spot. Stiles, being Stiles, can hold a whole conversation right there without any input needed.

The beer helps a bit. It’s weak and tempered by food, but it helps get the words flowing. “So the spiral. No one really’s gotta clue what it is. I mean, s’his calling card. Obviously. He puts it where people can see it. Carves it, draws it, burns it. Always where we’d notice.”

“Can we be done with this conversation?” Lydia mutters from across the fire.

“Why does it have to be a man?” Kira pipes up, leaning around Scott. “There wasn’t ever any evidence of that right?”

There’s a reason he likes her. “You’re right. You’re totally right. I like her, Scotty. We can keep her--”

“Good thing, since she’s been here for four years already.”

“--We don’t have any DNA evidence proving the Alpha is a guy. We don’t really have any DNA evidence at all, other than the animal DNA. But statistically speaking this kinda messy spree killing style are usually done by a man.” Stiles nods, more to himself than anything. “Yeah, yeah. See none of the murders are really methodical? There’s no pattern to it. Usually serial killers have a pattern. A ritual. The Alpha doesn’t. See, I don’t think he’s really a serial killer. A mass murder, yeah. A spree killer. But each of his murders’ve been pretty different. The only thing they’ve got in common is the spiral, the animal, and how bloody they all are. You’d think if you wanted to claw open someone and eviscerate them, you’d plan it out more--”

“Stilinski!”

It’s the tense crackle in Jackson’s voice that actually gets him to stop. It’s not a tone he hears from Jackson often – if ever. But he knows the razor sharp edge of panic all too well, and hearing come out of _Jackson_ sends his rambling to a halt. He finally pauses to look – actually _look_ – at the pair sitting across from him. Lydia’s expression has frozen into one of carefully crafted boredom, a mask that she usually affects. But there’s a turmoil just behind it this time, just below the surface – a pinched appearance to her eyes and mouth. And she’s not looking at him, either, instead staring at the fire, her hands in a white-knuckle grip on Jackson’s arm. Jackson’s returning it, one hand clenched around both of hers. But Jackson has his eyes trained on Stiles, and there’s a hollow sort of anger and panic twisting his face.

And Stiles… Stiles is an asshole. A giant, raging asshole.

Awkward silence falls heavy between them.

“I-- shit.” He oh-so-eloquently blurts. “I’m-- I’m just-- I’m gonna go… walk this off.” Stiles shoots to his feet so quickly that he sways, but it’s got nothing to do with the beer. He steps around his friends, who are making a grab for him.

“Stiles, don’t-- you shouldn’t go walking in the woods by yourself! I’ll come with you.” Scott is already half out of his seat when Stiles waves him away.

“No. No, I’m just gonna… I won’t be gone long. I’ll be back by sunset. I just need to uh… go.” Go and stop being the worst friend in existence. He bounds off down the path of stepping stones towards the woods, plastering a careless smile onto his face when he calls reassurances to his friends over his shoulder. He doesn’t let it drop until he’s safely under the trees, and he can’t see the cabin anymore.

His shoulders sag. “Shit. Way to go, Stilinski. You knew better. You just couldn’t keep your fucking mouth shut. And now you’re talking to yourself in the woods like a moron.” Even if Stiles hadn’t lived the case as it was happening, he knows the case file cover to cover.

And under the documentation for the third murder, there’s two witness statements labelled _Jackson Whittemore_ and _Lydia Martin_. And after are two reports on the nervous breakdowns both of them had suffered soon after witnessing the murder.

“I… am a horrible person,” he sighs. Maybe after a walk in the woods, he’ll come back as less of one.

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

Derek gives the chains another experimental tug, but the steady hold they have on his wrists does little to comfort him. His last resort against the Alpha - the only set of surviving chains left in the tunnels beneath his family home - is a futile one at best. But still Derek huddles in the corner of his hotel room, chained to the radiator.

The call has gone back down to a constant burn - an ache that presses against the back of his eyes and makes him feel like his muscles have been stretched thin. It crests and ebbs in unpredictable patterns, and he finds himself caught off guard by the full-body burn again and again. It’s worse than it was in New York, undoubtedly due to this proximity to the Alpha. But the Alpha hasn’t demanded his presence and caused him to black out yet.

It worries him.

The next wave crashes down on him, pain flaring so hot that he feels it in his _teeth_. His fangs descend through his gums so fast he tastes blood. It’s all he can do to grab onto the radiator and just hope that it will pass at all. Each second feels like eternity. He’s left drenched in sweat and gasping for breath when it finally does pass, his head swimming and muscles jerking in lingering pain. He listens hard, senses taking in the sounds of the hotel and hoping he hasn’t screamed and put the staff on alert.

And then, in far too short a time, another torrent of pain. And then another. And another. Each growing more violent and frequent. Derek thinks his face may be wet with tears, but he can’t get his brain to focus enough to tell. His throat burns, but he can’t hear if he’s screaming. His jaw aches from trying to keep them back.

 _'Stop!'_ he wants to beg. But it's a plea that isn't going to be heeded. The Alpha has changed tactics, it seems - trying to break him with the torture of not obeying the call. _'Don't listen. Don't break. Just hang on.'_

Except there's nothing and no one coming to save him. He’s fighting a losing battle because there isn’t going to be a safe end for him to wait for. There’s just death at the hands of an Alpha.

 _‘Fight it. FIGHT IT.’_ It’s his last chance.

The howl slams into him, the distance meaningless to the sheer force of the command that rattles his very bones. To human ears it will barely be an echo, but to Derek it feels like his head is about to split open. His entire body seizes. He’s sure he does scream, then. But he doesn’t answer the howl. By some miracle, he doesn’t give in to the compulsion to answer it.

His world tilts, his vision swimming and over-saturated. His skin burns - it feels twisted and too tight. Derek’s bone shift. His joints crack but the pain is nothing compared to the agony he’s already in. He twists, writhes, gets caught in his clothes. Paws skitter across the carpet and he sticks his muzzle under the cracked window to open it, squeezing through the gap.

And then he’s free. The autumn air is cool through his fur, the leaves crunching under his paws. It feels like a lifetime since the forest felt this much like home.

_Pack. Alpha._

_**Alpha.** He needs an Alpha._

_He doesn’t want to be alone anymore._

He runs. The instinct drives him, the ground flying by beneath his paws, the undergrowth whipping past his body. It doesn’t matter how far he races through the dense forest. He’d run all night at this point.

He wants. He wants – he _wants._

But he shouldn’t. He _can’t._

He picks up the scent – earthy, sweet, familiar – too quickly for him to turn. He almost trips over his own legs in his attempt to change course. It’s welcoming and warm. _It smells right._

He _wants._

There’s a scent of gunpowder, metal, and wolfsbane in the same direction. It should be a warning, but this time, it’s a salvation.

The burn of wolfsbane soaked steel is a welcome one.

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

**END CHAPTER 2.**


	3. Let your teeth sink in (remember me as I was, not as I am)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is so dead.
> 
> “I swear I don’t taste good. Like at all. You don’t want to eat me. Just… just stay there. I’m so dead. _So dead_ , oh shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's the chapter you've all been waiting for! Stiles has his little encounter in the woods. :3 I'd like to thank everyone once again for the feedback you've given me. It means so much! If anyone wants to keep up with how the writing of this story is going, I have a number of links on my profile. I am on my [Fandom Tumblr](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/) and my [Art/Fic Tumblr](http://anamelessdream.tumblr.com/) most often. Enjoy, everyone!
> 
> The banner for this chapter includes artwork from [tashastrawberry](http://tashastrawberry.tumblr.com/post/32344901756/dont-eat-me), who graciously let me use it for this.

\--------------------1---------------------

 

In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t a good idea to go walking into the woods without his phone. Or a map. Or even an understanding of the trails.

Stiles is not lost.

Not really, anyway. He knows what direction he came from, and what general direction the cabin is in. And he's still on the path! That's the most important fact. He hasn't gone off the path. But the problem is that the trail branches off through the park. And Stiles can't remember what combination of turns he took. He was kind of too busy hating himself for being an absolute jerk at the time.

"Maybe if I had _my phone_ I wouldn't be stuck out here," he grumbles. He ignores the fact that there being a cell tower out this far is a long shot.

But the sun is setting, throwing the forest in dim twilight.

And the single, booming howl that had echoed between the hills a while ago was… unsettling, to say the least.

“There are no wild wolves in California,” he reminds himself. “Haven’t had them since the 20s. There’s no sanctuaries nearby. No wolves. Nope.” That howl? Didn’t happen. It’s all an hallucination brought on by stress and the beer. The two and a half beers he had approximately three hours ago.

That’s totally what it is.

Stiles wanders the path for a few minutes more, becoming increasingly uneasy with the fading light. He doesn’t even have a flashlight. Being out in the woods at night isn’t a smart idea. There might not be wolves in California anymore, but there are still bears. And mountain lions.

Stiles really, _really_ needs to find his way back to the cabin.

He’s just contemplating finding a the tallest hill in the area or just climbing a tree when he hears a low, mournful whine from the dense brush off the trail. Stiles freezes. It sounds no more than twenty feet from him, which is way too close for meeting a wild animal in the dark. Now that all of his senses are trained on the sound, he can hear rustling – something struggling in the brush. Stiles tilts his head. It doesn’t _sound_ like it’s getting closer. But if he’s noticed a wild animal, it’s most certainly noticed him by now.

The sound of the blood rushing in his ears is interrupted by what is very clearly a yelp of pain. A very _canine_ yelp – high and heart-wrenching.

 It could be somebody’s dog, lost out here in the woods as much as Stiles is. It could be something… wilder.

_‘There are no wild wolves in California.’_

He shakes his head quickly, striding with purpose down the path. “Not doing it.” He stops, takes a few steps back. “No. Nope. Not gonna.” He only gets a few paces more before he hears another soft whine, more a whimper this time. Stiles presses his face into his hands. “I’m gonna die.”

And he walks off the path in the direction of the sound.

There’s no going quietly or easily at this time of year. Leaves cover the ground and make creeping silently impossible. Most of the brush has died with the autumn weather, leaving the trek a mess of pointy branches and drying leaves. Stiles gets poked, scraped, and trips over a fallen branch all before he clears the underbrush. And yet, all of that is preferable to what he finds on the other side of it. Stiles goes still, not even daring to breathe.

“ _Shit_ ,” he finally hisses after a moment. His hands flail in front of him, matching the ever quickening rhythm of his breathing. “ _Shit_. Uh. N-Nice… doggie.”

It’s definitely _not_ a dog.

Christ, calling it a _wolf_ would even be laughable. Stiles knows wolves are supposed to be big animals. He’s seen video of them with trainers and conservationists. But this puts those wolves to shame. _‘ Illegal hybrid_ _,’_ is what his mind immediately jumps to, after, you know, the blinding panic. Like someone had crossed a wolf with a _Russian bear do g_ _._ Standing on all fours, the canine could easily reach Stiles’ chest!  It's fur is as black as the night, which makes its eyes - a startling, vibrant blue - stand out all the more. Stiles doesn't think he's ever heard of a dog with eyes quite that color. And with the moonlight reflecting off them, it makes them seem even brighter.

And it’s staring at him. And growling.

Stiles is so dead.

“I swear I don’t taste good. Like at all. You don’t want to eat me. Just… just stay there. I’m so dead. _So dead_ , oh shit.”

Or he would be, if the... wolf was free. After a few seconds of stillness, Stiles actually braves looking closely at it. Its back leg is caught in some kind of trap - a steel wire cinched around it. The skin beneath the cable is red and broken, blood congealing over the wire and being broken open again every time the wolf struggles. He should just leave it. He should be running the other way because if not for the trap, Stiles would be _dead_ right now.

His body doesn't move.

"Christ, that looks like it hurts."

The wolf's ears flatten back against its head, its growls deepening at his words. Knowing the wolf is trapped doesn’t comfort Stiles. His heart pounds a painful rhythm inside his chest, and he swallows past the lump in his throat.

“We’re okay,” he says slowly. “We’re okay. Just everybody calm down.” Cautiously, he lowers himself to the ground, kneeling in the leaves and dirt and hoping that it makes him look less threatening. Lifting his hands, no matter how gently, only causes the growling to get louder. “No, come on. I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re just gonna relax, and you’re not going to rip my throat out with your teeth. Okay? You’re fine. I mean you’re obviously hurt and hey, I don’t blame you for being a little grouchy, but you’re not going to get any worse, I promise.”

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s the tone or the constant babble (of which he is a _master_ at, thank you), but the wolf’s ears perk a little from where they’re plastered to its skull, and the snarling eases. It’s a good start. “See? See, we’re all calm here. It’s all good, wolfy dude.” Stiles lowers himself into a comfortable sitting position, keeping his eyes on the wolf’s at all times. Isn’t there something about not breaking eye contact with predators? Or is that _don’t_ make eye contact with predators? It’s too late if it’s the latter.

He’s silent for a few seconds, just watching. The rumbling snarls get quieter, but the wolf doesn’t relax. Stiles doesn’t really expect it to.

“So,” Stiles leans back on his hands, “you come here often?” If a wolf could look unimpressed, this one does the most hilarious approximation of it that Stiles has ever seen. Its forehead even does this interesting little furrow as if it's glaring at him. It’s probably Stiles’ imagination. But he still laughs, a little too loud and a little too sharp with hysteria. The wolf doesn’t flinch at the sound. “Oh hey,” he says, “you don’t seem too afraid of me. Like you know people. Maybe you are somebody’s pet that got lost out here.”

The wolf growls at him anew, but softer this time. Less murderous, more… annoyed, maybe.

“Okay, okay. Not somebody’s pet. But you don’t live out here, do you?”

Predictably, the wolf doesn’t answer.

“You’ve got some pretty eyes, you know? And some nice fur going on too. I bet it’s soft. You’re definitely somebody’s-- I mean, you definitely live with humans. God, you’re huge. What do they even feed you, huh, Big Bad?” Stiles looks down at his red zip-up hoodie, frequently stolen from Scott’s closet, and snickers. “Guess that makes me Red Riding Hood, doesn’t it? Well, I am lost out in the woods looking for a cabin. But you’re not gonna eat me… right?”

The wolf tosses its head, and if Stiles doesn’t know any better, he’d say it's rolling its eyes at him. The movement causes the trap to tug, and the wolf lets out a muffled whimper. 

Stiles winces. “I could get that off for you.” He reaches out a hand in an awkward pantomime of his offer. And as soon as he moves the wolf is back on alert, snarling quietly at him. “Okay, okay. No touching. But you won’t get out of there without my help. …Unless you chew your leg off. Which just sounds gross and painful. You should just let me help you, dude.”

The wolf hunkers lower to the ground, muscles bunching beneath fur as if it wants to strike. Not that it would end in anything other than pain for the wolf. And quite possibly Stiles needing new pants.

“Seriously? We’re going to play that game? You’re stuck and your options are either me, or whatever hunter set that trap up. And I doubt the hunter would be even a fraction as helpful as I would, okay? If you’re _lucky_ , they would call some kind of sanctuary and you’d be put in wolfy rehabilitation. If you’re not, you’re just dead. So _don’t. Give. Me. That._ ”

The wolf goes silent, its ears tipping back. And then it gives a forceful huff, and carefully lowers itself onto the ground. It rests its huge head between its equally huge paws, and heaves a sigh.

For a second, Stiles has no idea what to say. “Did you just listen to me? You did! There’s a good… uh. Boy? Girl? Dog. We’ll just go with dog. Because it _really_ looks like you’re glaring at me and I don’t really want to get close enough to check your junk.”

The wolf lets out a distinctly gruff sounding bark.

“You’re the grumpiest wolf I’ve ever met, you know. Which technically isn’t saying much because you’re the only wolf I’ve been this close to _ever_ \--”

At this, the hulking _jerk_  of a wolf digs its muzzle into the leaves and promptly throws them at him.

“Oh my god, you’re _such a douche_. Wait a minute--” Stiles lunges forward, planting himself on his hands and knees about three feet from the wolf, leaning low so they’re close to eye level. It’s dangerous and _stupid_ but it doesn’t immediately pounce and bite his face off so Stiles figures he's good. “Did you understand me just then?” He holds its gaze for a few moments. “You did, didn’t you? At least some of it. Right. Okay. Listen closely. _Closely_.” He stares intently into its blue eyes. “I want… to help. I want to help. I’m not gonna hurt you. I promise.” He’s talking to a dog. Which isn’t exactly _weird_ , people talk to dogs all the time. But he’s talking to a dog as if it understands English. Which is just silly. Right?

The wolf only blinks at him.

Of course it does.

“Come on, dude, gimme something to--”

The Howl (and yes, Stiles can’t help but think of it with a capital "H" because that is one hell of a Howl) rockets through the forest, louder than ever. It's so loud that Stiles can feel it in his _bones_.

And the wolf _freaks out_.

He has a fraction of a second to push himself back with as much force as he can muster. It sends him tumbling back onto the leaf-strewn ground, but it's either that or get mauled as the wolf suddenly thrashes violently. He watches in growing horror as it tries to run, only to reach the end of the wire's give and let out a high-pitched scream of pain. Any other animal would stop there, but the wolf only continues to thrash, snarling and whipping its body about like a thing possessed.

"Hey!" Stiles shouts in a panic, scrambling to his feet. "Stop, no! You're hurting yourself. Bad dog--!" The wolf snaps his jaws at him as he moves hesitantly closer, eyes wild and fangs gleaming white in the dark. "You're going to cut your leg down to the bone, stop it! STOP!"

The moon must come out from behind the clouds, because everything seems to get brighter. It even reflects off the wolf's eyes, almost like they're glowing. His heart gives an extra hard thump. And everything seems to settle.

" _Stop_ ," he says again, voice echoing in the quiet of the forest.

And the wolf does. The growls abruptly break off into low whines, its tail going down and head lowering. It's a complete one-eighty from just a few seconds ago. "I-- okay. You stopped. Good." The wolf continues to whine, and hell, Stiles can never resist the sad eyes. It's his greatest weakness. He reaches out a hand towards the wolf for the second time that night, but this time it doesn't respond threateningly. Instead, it whimpers and butts its head into his hand and _nuzzles_ like it's the world's biggest puppy.

"I don't even know what to say to this," he admits. "But at least you're not trying to bite me. Or hurt yourself." Stiles digs his fingers in a bit, giving it a good scratch behind the jaw. The wolf just about mewls at him. "See? Not so scary now, huh? You gonna let me get you loose?” He waits for it to relax under his touch before kneeling down beside it. It’s a bad idea in the end, as whatever switch has been flipped has turned the wolf into a touch-starved puppy. Stiles is almost bowled over by the disturbingly affectionate canine.

“I kind of need you to back off if you want me to get you unstuck, dude. No, no don’t whine at me. I’m serious. If you’re all up on me I can’t reach the trap. Come on, back up! Dude, I don’t know what I did to get you to love me, but it’s a little much. You hated me like thirty seconds ago.”

He manages, eventually - ends up with the wolf practically curled around him as he very carefully works his pocket knife between the wire and the-- its… _his_ , okay, there’s no denying that at this point and at this angle he’s gotten an ample look at the wolf’s junk - his leg. The wire comes loose easily, too easily. Stiles picks it up after the wolf is free - who limps to the edge of the little clearing as if he can’t get away from the trap fast enough.

It’s sturdy, sure, but not steel wire like Stiles had first thought. And it smells strangely organic, almost floral. Like it was soaked in something. Stiles isn’t nearly as versed in the Fish and Game laws as he is criminal law, but he’s pretty sure the trap isn’t exactly kosher. In fact, the organic smell could be some type of poison. The thought almost makes him drop it.

Instead, he cuts off a section of the cord, wraps it very carefully into a bundle, and stows it in his pocket. If it were harmful to touch, he’d know by now. If it’s poisonous at all…

“Don’t drop dead on me, okay buddy?” he tells the wolf.

The wolf merely huffs back.

“No, seriously, today has been bad enough, I don’t need the giant wolf-dog who suddenly loves me dying on me.” Stiles gets to his feet, striding over to him. As soon as he’s within range, the wolf leans against him, and Stiles can’t tell if it’s just a byproduct of this weird sudden affection or because it takes the weight off his injured leg. But he does know that he has to brace against the unexpected weight leaning against him. “You wanted to bite my face off before. You’re not allowed to pretend that you’re a lapdog now.”

If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say the wolf is offended by that. He lets out a very wolfy huff once more, and trots ahead of him.

“Where are you going?”

The wolf stops, turns, and a chill goes down Stiles’ spine. It’s a trick of the light, of the moonlight slanting through the trees _just right_ , but the black wolf is cast in shadow and it looks like his striking eyes _glow_.

There’s a moment of silence before Stiles realizes the wolf is waiting for him.

“This is so weird,” he mutters. But... he follows after his new “friend” anyway. "I swear to god, if you're leading me down the rabbit hole, I'm leaving you for the bears to eat." Stiles pushes lightly at the wolf's head.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn't answer back.

The wolf hobbles off through the forest, and Stiles has no choice but to follow. In all the excitement, he realizes he’s forgotten exactly what direction the path is in. It’s possible that he would be able to find his way back to the path… eventually. “I hope you know where you’re going,” Stiles says. “Because I sure as hell don’t.”

It earns him a look, a disturbingly _knowing_ look from those bright, far too intelligent eyes. The wolf waits for him to catch up, and ducks his head under Stiles’ arm to nuzzle at him. It’s so weird.

“You shouldn’t like me this much, pooch.”

Stiles lets the wolf lead him, even if it’s one of the most surreal moments of his life. Previous bouts of hallucinations included.

Stiles isn’t sure how long they walk. All he knows is that it’s long enough for him to run right into the whip-like end of a low hanging branch, trip on no fewer than seven tree roots, and walk through far more spider webs than he _ever_ wanted to. So when they come out of the trees on the side of a hill, it’s a momentous relief. The second the cool breeze hits his face, no longer obstructed by trees and brush, he sighs. “Oh thank god, I-- hey!” And there, off in the distance, are lights. There’s just enough of a gap through the trees that Stiles can make out the peak of the cabin’s roof. There! There it is! He’s saved!

“I could kiss you right now, wolfy dude.”

Stiles expects him to woof at him, just like he has with everything Stiles has said during their walk. (Which is a lot. Stiles talks at every chance he can get. Just because his conversation partner is four-legged isn’t even close to a deterrent.) But the wolf is quiet. So quiet that until he turns to look, Stiles wonders if the wolf is still there. He is, of course. But he’s gone still, his ears perked forward and his head just slightly lowered. It’s a pose Stiles recognizes; seen it one too many times in dogs who are sizing up a threat. The intent staring off into the distance makes Stiles’ heart race, even before he looks.

On the far end of the valley, a shape is moving out of the trees. And it looks…

_‘Don’t trust your eyes. It’s dark and the distance is off. Don’t trust your eyes.’_

But Stiles Stilinski is a deputy of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. He’s been _trained_ to trust his eyes.

The problem is, his eyes are telling him that by the distance of the valley, whatever just walked out of those trees is about the size of a brown bear. But it, in no other way, resembles one. The shape of the body is wrong. It looks like nothing Stiles has ever seen before, save for something out of a cryptid hoax or a horror movie. And it turning its head to reveal what he _swears_ looks like red eyes?

That definitely doesn’t help.

“Ah, man-- what… what the hell is that?” he whimpers in dread.

His answer is a frantic headbutt to the hip. Stiles would yelp, would push the wolf back, but his voice is caught in his throat - his body paralyzed. The wolf keeps shoving him, until he stumbles a step. And then another, and another. His legs catch up with the message before his mind does, and then both Stiles and the wolf are sprinting across the valley for the house. A sound rips through the air after him, a snarl so deep and loud that Stiles' heart just about leaps out of his throat. He can't hear if it, whatever that _thing_ is, is following them. He can't tell if it’s rushing footsteps that he hears or his own heart. If it is, he's dead. He's so dead.

Fuck this entire day. He wants a refund.

His heart leaps as he breaks from the treeline and into the cabin’s yard. All the lights are on, the warm light streaming through the windows. Stiles is so focused on the idea of safety that he hears the skidding of paws a second too late. He’s halfway across the lawn before he realizes the wolf is no longer beside him.

“What are you doing?!” Stiles hisses, nearly tripping over his own legs as he whirls around. The wolf is standing just outside of the treeline, frozen on the spot. Stiles beckons him to come forward, but gets no response. “Come on! That thing could be…” He doesn’t hear anything chasing them. The forest is quiet again. But that does nothing to comfort the panic rushing through his veins. “Come _on_!”

The wolf whines low at him, pacing a few steps in either direction, but never moving further. Heart in his throat, Stiles rushes to him, digging his fingers into the soft fur at the back of his neck and attempting to physically pull the wolf - who undoubtedly has more than seventy pounds on him - to safety.

The wolf lets out a piercing yelp before he can even take a step, and he yanks back as if burned. Stiles watches in dismay as he frantically rubs at his muzzle with his front paw. He’s whimpering as if Stiles has struck him. “What?” Stiles asks urgently, reaching out on instinct to soothe whatever has hurt the wolf. “You need to come on! There’s nothing…”

But there is something. The air just above where he’s kneeling smells floral and a little like ozone – something crackling and electric like the air just after a lightning strike. His eyes go down to the dirt between them, where the smell is strongest. The earth is soft, it gives easily beneath his fingers; so it doesn’t surprise Stiles so much when his fingers find something buried just beneath the surface.

A worn hemp rope is what he pulls out of the ground. Idly, Stiles wonders if he should be surprised, or even confused. Or just accept that nothing about this night makes _any fucking sense._ The rope smells abundantly floral, and his mind quickly catalogues that it’s similar to the trap he’d found in the woods. The rest of it stretches out on either side of him, and when Stiles gives each end a tug, more of it lifts out of the dirt a few feet from him.

Stiles looks from the rope to where the wolf is pacing frantically on the other side of it. He can’t even begin to reason what it is or why the wolf doesn’t seem to want to be near it. He doesn’t have the time – not when there’s something that could be lurking out there in the woods. His pocketknife is in his hands before he consciously thinks about it. But as soon as he touches the blade to the hemp, the wolf lets out a colossal bark. Stiles goes dizzy, and the only thing that keeps him from screaming is the shock alone. “Stop that! What? _What?_ ”

The wolf doesn’t stop barking until Stiles takes the knife away. The second it is, the wolf’s massive muzzle slams down on his hand, knocking the rope out. He watches, in blank shock, as the wolf proceeds to push it back into the ground, whimpering in apparent pain as his paws cover it back in the dirt.

The sound of brush rustling in the trees causes the wolf, and Stiles, to go rigid. They both shoot to their feet, hyper alert. The silence that follows is suffocating. He looks to the wolf, who can’t seem to cross into the yard. Into safety. The wolf looks back at him with too sharp, too blue eyes. And Stiles knows the wolf isn’t going to come with him.

“This is so fucked,” he rasps. And then, to the wolf, “Be safe?”

The wolf _wffs_ at him, pacing on the spot for a moment longer, and then takes off into the woods.

He waits there for as long as he can, taking a few unsteady steps back. He waits there even as the sound of the wolf running through the trees is long gone. Stiles waits until the fear sets in, until he’s swaying unconsciously on the spot, and then scurries up the lawn and into the cabin.

There’s no one there to greet him. There’s no one there at all. His throat goes tight and his chest _aches_ , but Stiles manages to fight off the rising panic. On the table in the sitting room, in plain sight of the foyer, sits a hand radio and a note.

_Stilinski,_

_Back before sunset, my ass. We’re out looking for you. If you get back before us, use this._

_Danny_

“You can have my ass on a silver platter, you gorgeous, wonderful man.” Stiles scoops up the radio, taking a deep breath before pressing the button. “So,” he manages to say with some confidence, “who’s ready to go home? Because I am. Me. The answer is me.”

_“Stilinski!”_

_“Stiles, it’s about time, dude!”_

_“Stiles, you are not allowed to go out in the woods for the rest of the weekend!”_

"I'll second that one, Lyds," he agrees with a hitched laugh. "Getting lost in the woods? Not great. Having a magical adventure with the local wildlife? Even worse."

_"Stilinski, are you still drunk?"_

"No, Jack _ass_ , I'm not drunk. Just get back to the cabin. This forest is fucking creep _tastic_."

He doesn't let them stop talking. It's what he's good at, forcing conversation. The thought of something happening to them in even the smallest moment of silence has his hands shaking. So instead he paces the foyer, refusing to leave until he sees his friends returned to the safety of the house. His heart doesn’t stop its frantic racing until he hears tires crunching up the gravel. He has the door open before they’re even out of Danny’s SUV, his eyes darting nervously to the forest around them even though he hasn’t heard anything out there since his mad dash from the valley.

He starts to wonder if his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. If maybe the fear and the darkness and maybe even the beer had warped his senses.

“You okay?” is the first thing Scott says upon seeing him. Bless him.

“Yeah,” Stiles lies, then thinks better of it. “No, I--” The words of what he’s seen just won’t come out. “It… It was wild. I’m gonna get some sleep, I guess? See you in the morning, guys.” He doesn’t wait for their response, just waves at them with a weak grin as he retreats to his room. He barely manages to kick his shoes off and shut the door before falling into bed, fully clothed.

He doesn’t sleep. He tosses. He turns. But mostly, he just stares out his window at the trees, and shivers imagining eyes staring back at him.

\-----------------------------------------

 

**END CHAPTER 3.**


	4. I don’t know where I’m going (but I don’t think I’m coming home)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human.
> 
> The Alpha is human. Which is impossible, and he’s sure it has to be a trick somehow. Derek follows it back into the Preserve, swiftly picking his way through the rotting growth. It’s easier to push away the scent memories when focusing on the Alpha. It’s not until he stops at the base of a hill that the scent sparks a memory.
> 
> “Shit.”
> 
> The gangly human is his Alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot going on in this chapter and BOY is it a long one because of it. Most of it is taken up by the **NSFW scene** in the middle (Danny/Stiles), and hopefully everyone is okay with that. The rest of the chapter includes some revelations on Derek's side, the fulfillment of the "Derek Hale has friends" tag (in the form of the OC Ceri), and some small insight into Derek and Stiles' backstory. Derek is also a bit of a jerk. Surprise, surprise.
> 
> Once again I'd just like to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this story and offer feedback and support! You guys make me so happy! If you ever want to come talk about this story or Sterek, you can find me [at my Tumblr!](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/)

\--------------------1---------------------

 

He must pass out at some point, because the next thing Stiles is aware of is sunlight pouring through the window and Kira and Scott pounding on his door. He’s ready to scowl at them as soon as he answers, but the first thing he sees is Scott standing in the hallway, donning a white crop top with a caricature of a nutella jar (of all things) on it and high-waisted, floral-patterned shorts. He’s got a similarly patterned red headband holding his bangs back today. And wearing a hopeful expression.

_‘Don’t fuck this up by being a sleep-deprived douche, Stiles. Don’t do it.’_

“Lookin’ great, Scotty!” he manages to say instead.  His voice is rough and he can barely keep his eyes open, but he manages an appropriate amount of enthusiasm.

Scott beams. No matter how grouchy and exhausted he feels, it’s worth it for that. Stiles does a mental fist pump of victory. “Really? You think it looks okay?” Scott gushes, tugging at the cuffs of his shorts.

“You look pretty as fuck, bro.” Stiles smothers a yawn, disguising it as best he can by looking Scott over. “Not feeling like make-up today?”

“Nah. We were thinking of heading down to the lake today. It’d just smudge off.”

Oh. Great. They’re both too cheerful to be decent as they usher him down the stairs, and they chatter at him about their plans for the lake the entire way down.It should sound fun, but today Stiles has had too little sleep and too much emotional _trauma_ to be even the slightest bit enthusiastic about it.

Danny, Lydia, and Jackson are waiting for them when they reach the kitchen. Jackson’s head pops up as they enter, but his eyes land on Scott and whatever’s about to spew out of his mouth gets lost. Instead he stands there gaping at Scott, until his friend tenses and slowly turns in Jackson’s direction. Stiles clenches his hands on the back of his chair, patience on a hair-trigger already.

Stiles isn’t sure if it’s him Jackson sees glaring or Lydia. Either way, he jolts, clears this throat, and mutters without any heat in his voice, “Nice outfit, McCall.”

Scott, like the rest of them, doesn’t know what to do with the compliment, even if it’s a reticent one. But the potential disaster has passed without blowing up in their faces. Scott even seems pleased to hear it, if confused.

Breakfast goes pretty smoothly after that, as far as Stiles can tell. He’s not sure he could even be considered among the living yet. Stiles is only just starting to resurrect himself via coffee and breakfast when he decides to speak up. “I’m gonna just chill here today.”

He’s only just starting to resurrect himself via coffee and breakfast (a pretty awesome breakfast – because at some point in this crazy thing called life, Jackson Whittemore turned out to be a talent in the kitchen) when he decides to speak up. “I’m gonna just chill here today.”

Lydia gives him a stare that could shatter glass. “You’re what.” Each word is clipped and without inflection. She doesn’t even wait for him to answer. “No, you’re not. You’re going with us. And you’re going to have a great time.” She’s using the tone that brooks no argument – the one that she uses to win disputes with people twice her size, age, and (supposed) authority. It’s the (as Stiles likes to refer to it) Lydia Martin Is Queen tone of voice.

Luckily for Stiles, he’s both used to that tone and far too exhausted to care. “No. What I’m _doing_ is staying here and pretending last night didn’t happen.”

From breakfast bar, Jackson scoffs. “So you got drunk and imagined you saw some weird shit. Boohoo.”

“I was _NOT_ drunk, Jackass. I wasn’t even drunk when I left here!”

“So then you had a break from reality. Not like that hasn’t happened--”

Stiles slams his hand onto the table, not caring if it makes most of them jump. “If you finish that sentence,” he says heatedly, “I will jump over this table and beat you with that barstool, I swear to god. _You_ of all people should know why that isn’t fucking funny.”

Jackson goes blissfully, deliciously silent, averting his eyes and looking especially guilty when Danny nudges him with his foot. The room is quiet for a few minutes, just long enough for Stiles to begin to fidget. He refuses to be the one to break it, however. It's Kira, in the end, who does, leaning onto the table on her elbows and peering at him with large, hesitant eyes. "What did you see last night?"

She's the first one to actually ask him that. And Stiles finds the words welling up and spilling from his mouth before he can even consider why he shouldn't. He knows exactly how crazy he sounds. Exactly how impossible what he's seen is. But it ate away at him all night, until he felt like screaming. The sensation is only worse now in the light of day, when last night's terror seems all the more fantastical. So he talks. And rants. And rambles off on tangents like it's his job.

He’s halfway through his encounter with the animal in the valley when Lydia stands up, her face startlingly pale before she turns with an irritated flip of her hair. “I’ve heard enough,” she says with an air of boredom. “I’m going to go get ready for the lake. Jackson, come on.”

Jackson scurries, actually _scurries_ across the room towards her, eyes dark and face pale. Scott opens his mouth to ask, but quickly shuts it again when Danny shakes his head, expression grim. They listen for a moment as the pair tromp up the stairs, until their footsteps fade on the third floor stairway.

“We didn’t see anything weird while we were in the woods last night,” Scott tells him, his voice quiet.

 _‘Good,’_ Stiles wants to say. The terror was enough, but the thought of it being out there with his friends isn’t something Stiles can handle.

“There wasn’t any sign of a… wolf either,” Kira adds. She winces, as if she feels guilty even saying it.

“I know that was real.” Stiles presses his thumbs against his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure building there. “Not an actual wolf, maybe. It was way too accustomed to people to be one. And there haven’t been any wild wolves in California for like… decades. It was probably somebody’s wolfdog that got loose.”

“Probably,” Scott agrees. He reaches over to grip Stiles’ shoulder. “Rest for a bit. And then, if you’re feeling better, come out to the lake? We’ll be there all day.”

“Sure. Yeah. I’m gonna just… have fun, guys.” He makes his escape as hastily as he can without making it obvious, swaying as he deposits his dishes in the sink and makes a break for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, a dangerous idea for him even when he’s at his best. So it’s no surprise when he stumbles at the last one, catching himself on the railing and half swinging around it. He looks up just in time to see Jackson and Lydia leaning against the wall opposite the third floor stairs. They’re huddled together, heads bent close and expressions pinched.

“It’s not _real_ ,” Lydia mutters. Her arms are crossed protectively over her chest, knuckles white.

“I know! But I’m not the one who got a look at it, Lydia. You did. Just because Stilinski freaked out and thought he--" And that's when Jackson notices Stiles standing on the landing below. His expression immediately closes off, and for a second Stiles is taken back to those good old high school days when he was convinced Jackson was nothing more than a rich douchebag.

He's still a moderately rich douchebag. But now he knows there's layers involved. It softens the distaste.

"Uh. Hey." He tries not to cringe at the pathetic attempt. "You... okay?" And it only gets worse.

Lydia answers a little too quickly. "Fine." She pulls Jackson away by the hand, and out of his sight. She doesn't even try to cover up the lie.

Disheartened, Stiles stumbles back to his room, kicks the door closed, and collapses into bed. He doesn't sleep for long, or very well. He keeps seeing red eyes and open jaws full of fangs every time he starts to drift off. Stiles drifts in an out of sleep, never long enough to get any decent rest. So it's a relief when there's a knock on his door.

"M'comin', hold on." Stiles oozes out of bed like something from the primordial soup. He sort of feels like it too. At least he only manages to trip on one or two things before getting to the door. "Ow! Shit. What is it-- oh. Uh. Hey, Danny."

Danny’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest in the perfect way to accentuate his biceps and his smile easygoing. “Hey. The others just left.”

“They just… and you didn’t go?”

If anything, Danny’s smile sharpens. “Nah. I volunteered to babysit. Someone’s got to look after you.”

“Right, because I so need a-- wait.” He’s halfway into starting an annoyed diatribe when the thought hits him. Stiles takes in the other man’s posture - his almost catlike smile and easy, attractive sprawl of his body. His throat immediately goes dry. “ _Oh_. You-- really? Do you want to-- because _hell yeah_ we can totally do that.”

He has to stop because Danny leans right into his space, his eyes full of promise. “What you’re going to do, is go shower… and then come meet me in my room. Okay?” Danny doesn’t wait for him to form an answer, just dips his head to close the distance, slotting their mouths together for a brief, exhilarating instant. And then he gives Stiles a seductive little smile before striding back down the hall towards his room. Stiles watches him go, lips still parted and tingling. It’s not until Danny disappears from sight that he explodes into movement, sprinting full pelt for the bathroom.

It’s the quickest shower he’s taken in his life.

He emerges after - clean, shaved, half-hard, and still damp - holding the towel around his hips as he races back down to the other end of the hall. He skids to a stop in the open doorway, only to find Danny sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

“Hey there.” Danny stands with fluid grace, bedroom eyes already turning Stiles’ insides into molten fire and _oh god, fuck yes,_ he’s on board for this. The moment Danny is within arm’s reach, Stiles catches a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in, too excited for slow and teasing kisses and skipping right to burning and slick. Danny hums against his mouth, pleased rather than annoyed, carding a hand through his still-wet hair. “Stiles, did you even dry off?” His laugh is breathy, sending an electric thrill down Stiles’ spine.

“Enough. You think I could wait for this?”

“Obviously not. I don’t know if I should be flattered or if you’re just desperate.”

“Both?” Stiles breathes, darting forward to nip at his lower lip. “Definitely a bit of both.” His voice hitches in want, and it would be embarrassing if it didn’t put that smile onto Danny’s face. The one that’s knowing and sensual and far too sexy.

His eyes go wide as Danny slides to his knees without preamble. The towel is plucked from his hand and tossed carelessly aside. Strong, sure hands smooth up his thighs, making a beeline for his cock and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. Danny’s shameless in taking him in hand, stroking him in sure, deft motions to full hardness. He glances up at Stiles, smile soft as he takes in his bitten-red lips.

“You play with yourself in the shower?”

“Maybe a little,” Stiles says, placing a hand on the doorframe to steady himself. “How d’you expect me not to when you’re waiting here?”

“Mmhm,” Danny hums in acceptance, almost purrs, really. And then Stiles’ knees do go a little weak because he brushes a hand over sac and back over his perineum, just teasing with his fingertips until they press against his hole. The pads of his fingers just barely tug against his rim. “Here too? You didn’t have too much fun without me, did you?”

“Never,” Stiles says.  “Can you blame me for getting excited?”

“Desperate,” Danny coos up at him.

“Yes, yes, _desperate_. You want to hear me beg, Danny? Because I will. When have you ever known me to have shame?”

He laughs, and Stiles is just about to start begging - loudly and theatrically - when Danny looks up at him through lowered lashes. “You don’t need to do that. _This_ time.” He doesn’t get a chance to come up with a snappy comeback for that, because Danny lowers his head and kisses just under the head of his dick. It comes out as a vicious curse instead, his body sagging against the doorframe.

“Mm, I love your dick,” Danny hums, dragging his tongue along the ridge of the head.

“Size queen,” Stiles retorts, but there’s no hiding the fondness in his voice. How can he with _that_ kind of ego boost?

Danny sits back enough to arch a brow at him, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Size queen? You’re not _that_ big,” he teases.

Stiles gasps in mock outrage.

“Oh, I’m _so sorry._ Have I offended you?” Danny huffs, dipping in for one brain-melting pull of soft, wet lips and gentle suction around him. “Lemme make it up to you.” He lowers his head, gazing up at him through his lashes.

From there suction and wet heat is all Stiles can focus on. All he can look at is the stretch of Danny’s lips around him, slick and obscene. Danny knows exactly what he’s doing, bobbing his head in shallow little movements to match his stroking hand. He knows exactly what tricks make Stiles legs buckle and shake; exactly how to flick his tongue along the underside of his cock and how to twist his hand until Stiles can’t form a coherent thought.

“ _God_ , you are such a fucking tease. What are you even doing--” Stiles isn’t even conscious of what he’s saying. Doesn’t care. Especially not when Danny draws back, lips red, puffy and slick, and smirks before twisting the tip of his tongue against his slit. His hands fly to Danny’s broad shoulders for balance. He can feel them shaking under his hands. Feel Danny’s laugh vibrating against his cock. “Don’t-- _shit!_ Don’t you laugh at me, jerk. You try standing while getting your dick sucked.”

“Maybe later.” Stiles keeps his hands on Danny’s shoulders as he climbs to his feet, drags him in because he can’t be expected to resist kissing those reddened lips and nibbling on them to make them even puffier. And Danny lets him; lets his mouth go slack and Stiles take control of the kiss so he can focus on walking them back towards the bed.

The kiss is suddenly broken with a shove, and Stiles goes tumbling face first onto the bed. “Ohhh~ Mister Mahealani, be gentle with me~!” He shrieks with laughter at the playful swat on the thigh that gets him.

“Dork. Scoot up and lie on your back. Get comfy.”

Stiles chirps out a teasing, “Yessir!” and scurries to obey. He tucks a hand behind his head after wriggling comfortably into the pillows, idly caressing the other down his stomach and over the base of his cock. He watches as Danny starts stripping off his clothes, grinning at the extra roll of his hips or arch of his spine that he puts into it.

“Noo,” he pleads as Danny is kicking his jeans off his feet. “Go slower. Sexier.”

“Do you want a strip tease, or do you want me to ride your dick?”

“What kind of ultimatum is _that?_ ” he says. Stiles pats frantically at the quilt. “Get up here, you cruel man.”

Danny tosses a condom and a bottle of lube onto the bed before climbing up. He straddles Stiles’ hips, but Stiles beats him in reaching for the lube. Danny’s brows arch in silent question.

“I wanna do it,” Stiles says quickly, his voice coming out raspy with desire. “I want to watch you ride my fingers for a bit.” That earns him a smile, and Danny obligingly lifts up so Stiles can get a hand under him to run slick fingers between his legs. He takes a moment to enjoy the fluttering pleasure in Danny’s face as he rubs at his entrance, waiting until the muscles give to push inside. Danny barely waits for him to still, let alone get two fingers in him.

The sight of Danny rocking above him, eyes drifted closed and mouth slack, makes up for this entire disaster of a vacation. He’s not even inside him yet and it already makes up for it.Danny could just get off riding his fingers and Stiles would be pretty satisfied with the show.

Not that he isn’t looking forward to Danny riding him through the mattress. Because that is a thing that’s happening. And it’s going to be _amazing_. Somehow Stiles manages to keep his excitement in check, not hurrying Danny along as he presses his fingers into the movements of his hips, opening him up and crooking his fingers just enough for Danny to shudder above him.

Soon Danny is lifting off him, swatting his hand away and sliding down from his hips, face pink with pleasure. Any question Stiles would’ve asked is smothered by quick, fervent kisses, but he still hums out an inquisitive “Mmm?” against Danny’s mouth. The other man only chuckles at him. The ripping of foil answers for him anyway.

Stiles isn’t much help, his flailing hands ineffective as Danny rolls the condom down his length. The most he actually does is hold the lube for him and attempt, attentively, to make sure that Danny is relaxed and slick and ready to go.

And then Danny is straddling him again, guiding himself down onto his dick and everything is gripping heat. Stiles forgets to breathe for a few moments as Dany sinks down. His breath comes back in a gasp just as Danny’s mouth drops open in a soundless moan. He’s actually struck speechless, and Stiles is glad Danny is more than a little preoccupied or he’d never let Stiles live that down.

“Fuck, I love you,” Stiles manages to hiss all in one breath.

Danny’s eyes flicker down to him, a coy smile tugging at his lips. And _fuck,_ Stiles is so glad they made it past that point in their friendship where the phrase would cause Danny to freak out. He can say it now without worrying what it would do to them, with both of them comfortable with the fact that you can love someone and not _be_ _in love_ with them.

“I know,” Danny replies slyly.

And that should not turn him on like it does. Being Han Solo’d should not turn him on like that. “You’re ridin’ my dick _and_ quoting Star Wars at me. Marry me, you gorgeous bastard.”

“I’m amazing, I know.”

“Damn straight you are.”

“And I…” He leans down, grinding his hips in a slow roll that knocks the breath from Stiles’ lungs all over again. “...am going to take such good care of you.” He grabs Stiles’ spasming hands and brings them to his hips, holding them there as he begins rocking in an easy, deep rhythm. “Say ‘thank you, Danny.’”

“Tha-- Thank you - _fucking hell_.”

“Good enough,” Danny laughs softly.

It’s slow to start, deceptively so. But Danny’s so tight around him, clenching just right as he grinds on him. It’s not for a few minutes more that he actually starts to lift up, just a little, just enough. Just an easy rise and fall, letting his head tip back and expose the long line of his throat. It’s unhurried in its pace. They have plenty of time to enjoy it. And it’s the perfect pace to watch Danny moving above him, taking in the slow, torturous undulation of his hips, the bunching of thigh and abdominal muscles with each movement. The parting of his lips around each quiet gasp or the clenching of his hands around Stiles’, holding them to his hips, it does as much to him as the act itself.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” Danny’s voice comes out soft and breathy. His eyes are fond and this, this is just what Stiles needs. He doesn’t mind the sex where it’s all nipping teeth and pent up frustration. Where Danny resists and resists until his annoyance causes the dam to break. That’s its own kind of treat, its own game. But this is teasing and light and caring.

For the first time in days, Stiles feels like he can breathe. Each quick gasp comes out on a moan, the realization leaving him shaking and arching as the pleasure spikes.

And that seems to be what Danny’s waiting for. The other man leans forward, pressing his hands into the sheets on either side of Stiles’ head. “You ready?” he asks sweetly, too sweetly.

Oh, Stiles is in for it. “ _Fuck yes_. Do it.” his hands slide back to grip Danny’s ass, dragging him down on his cock. “Give it to me.”

He means it to be a challenge, throwing an extra buck of his hips to spur Danny on. He watches the pleasure flit across Danny’s face, his eyes widening and face going slack, before he comes back to himself and glares down at him.

And then he’s shifting his stance, lifting himself up and letting gravity take care of the work for a few thrusts, leaving both of them gasping. From there, it’s all Stiles can do to hold on. His nails dig into the backs of Danny’s thighs, his sharp moans sounding distant to his own ears, as Danny rides him with reckless abandon.

Stiles bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. It’s the only thing he can do to keep from coming too soon. There’s nothing teasing or even skillful about the frantic rock of Danny’s hips. It’s just a punishing race to the top and it’s going to be over soon enough already without Stiles losing it right there.

Danny goes until he starts to tire, a disappointed whine slipping past his lips when he can’t keep up the gruelling rhythm. His legs shake under Stiles’ hands, straining for more. “I’ve got you,” Stiles rasps quickly. He grabs Danny’s wrist, pushing it up the bed towards the headboard. “Brace up there. Come on, ‘ve got ya.”

“Fuck, Stiles…”

“Gonna take care of you, too.” He lets Danny steady himself gripping the headboard, and nudges Danny’s hips higher. Once he gets his feet under him, it’s so, so easy for Stiles to piston his hips up into him, to pick up the pace where Danny left off. And Danny’s hitched cry is all the encouragement he needs. “Not gonna--” Stiles can’t even finish the thought, hips snapping hard as the pleasure spikes hot in his belly. The rest of his words come out all in one breath. “ _Fuck_ , m’gonna come soon. Want you to come for me. Danny - _Danny_ , want to make you come.”

Above him, Danny curses, eyes dark and hot. “Gonna fuck me ‘til I come on you?”

“ _Yes_!” His arching body changes the angle of his next thrust, and Danny shouts. “Yeah. Yeah. Gotcha. Come on me, sweetheart.” Stiles has no idea what he’s saying anymore, just lets his mouth run with it. Danny seems to like it, anyway. His hand beats Danny’s down to his dick, fingers curling around him in an almost too-tight grip and stroking him fast. He has just enough thought to slick his palm in the precome dripping steadily from the slit. Danny’s so close, so close that Stiles can feel it around him.

Danny’s starting to sink lower, low enough for Stiles to lean up and bite at his chest and collarbone. His gasps and cries get higher and louder every time his hips buck down to meet Stiles’ thrusts. And then the tension snaps, Danny going still and trembling and spilling over Stiles’ belly and that’s all he can take. He drags Danny down by any part of him he can reach, his mouth colliding with Danny’s chin rather than his lips but fuck if he _cares_ at this point. He just holds on for dear life and fucks up into him until his own orgasm comes crashing down on him. His vision goes grey around the edges and even his toes tingle and it’s _fucking great._

And maybe it’s a little hot once the initial crest of orgasm dies down, and maybe he can’t breathe too well with their faces mashed together and sharing clumsy, trembling kisses. But fuck, he wouldn’t trade it.

After a few moments, Danny rolls off of him, groaning as he lifts off Stiles’ dick. He collapses onto the bed beside him, and as soon as Stiles’ sex-numb hands get the condom off, tie it shut, and toss it towards the trash, he’s right there with him. For a while, they just lie close, trying to catch their breath.

“Do you think… do you think I saw something?” he asks after a while.

Danny, wonderful man that he is, doesn’t even pretend to not know what he’s asking. “I think you saw something. Not sure what it was. Could’ve been a bear, maybe?”

“I guess.” Stiles muffles his sigh into the pillow. Logic, while he loves it, isn’t even close to satisfactory right now.

“Hey.” Danny scoots closer, fingertips trailing up Stiles’ arm. “The forest is weird at night.”

“Weird enough to make you see giant red-eyed monsters?”

“Well… weird enough to make you think that’s what you’re looking at. Or hey. Maybe you found the next Bigfoot hotspot.” Stiles shoves him. But it only makes him laugh.

"Jerk."

Danny's expression softens, making Stiles stomach do a dizzying little backflip. "You feel better, though?"

He does, miraculously. The steel grip around his chest has eased just enough. "Yeah..."

"That's great." Danny is too ridiculously sweet for words, with that genuine relief in his voice. And to make matters even worse, he leans over and brushes a kiss to Stiles' temple. "I'll set an alarm. Get some rest, and then we'll go meet everyone at the lake?"

"I guess... can I push Jackson in for being a douche?"

"If we do it together, he won't be too pissed at you."

Stiles fist pumps. "Yesssss."

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

The vacation, after that, is great. The lake is beautiful and cool, and Stiles has an awesome time. Hanging out on the lakeside relaxes them, the tension from the last 24 hours easing. It’s almost like a proper vacation. He works out his frustrations in an impromptu lacrosse game. It’s all laughter and banter.

Stiles still dreams of red eyes and the dark, encroaching forest that night, but he doesn’t wake up nearing a panic attack. Danny must hear his restless pacing anyway, because he slips into the room within a few minutes and takes him to bed. Stiles can only be grateful, especially when Danny smothers his exhausted rambling with his mouth and shoves a hand down his boxers. There’s no teasing about it, just the demanding pull of his hand and the delicious friction that makes his toes curl, until his rambling turns to sharp whines of pleasure. After, he shoves Danny gracelessly onto his back and slides down the bed to swallow as much of him down as he can take, until Danny tugs roughly at his hair and makes reedy moans as he comes.

After that, Stiles sleeps dreamlessly.

The next night Lydia and Kira convince Scott to put on darker make-up than the gloss and faint eyeliner than he usually braves wearing. Stiles, Jackson, and Danny get lured in, in a matter of minutes, and soon they’ve all had their makeovers and spend the evening taking selfies with each other looking _gorgeous_ and Stiles falls asleep in the den with his makeup still on. It’s a horrible mess in the morning, and there’s pictures on Kira’s phone to prove it.

He doesn’t see even a glimpse of either the strange creature or the wolf for the rest of his time at the cabin. But the strip of wire is still in his room – now stowed safely inside a plastic bag just in case it is poisonous. And the hemp rope is still buried just at the boundary of the yard. He follows the line of it on a day when he’s left relatively to himself – follows it almost clear around the property line. He wants to cut a piece of it loose too, to take it home and examine it. But some instinct tells him that isn't a good idea, for whatever reason, and he decides against it.

“Where did you guys find this place?” he asks at dinner that night.

“My mother likes these campgrounds,” Kira chirps back. “She came out here a lot before she moved to New York before I was born. I've always wanted to visit."

On Monday morning they pack up the cars and leave. Danny, gracious and sweet, lets Stiles ride with him.

The road head fails spectacularly. But it's fun anyway.

Danny drops him off at his ramshackle old building, and Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. Home, sweet, slightly dilapidated home. He hefts his duffle bag over his shoulder, checking his mail on the way in, and flips through it as he bounds up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. It's faster (and frankly safer) than the out-of-date death trap of an elevator the building has.

He skims through the only interesting piece of mail – a colorfully worded letter stating that Finstock, his current landlord and retired lacrosse coach, was going to be stepping down to general handyman and assistant because the owner of the building was “finally moving in and taking responsibility for this dump.” His week is going to be entertaining, by the looks of it. Watching the unsuspecting owner of the building being put through the Finstock welcome would be the highlight of anyone’s week.

Stiles does the whole routine of slamming his shoulder into the sticking door of his apartment as he unlocks it, and then the echoing move of kicking it shut with more force than usually necessary to make sure it closes completely. The apartment is just how he left it. Which is highly suspicious.

And that isn’t paranoia talking. Stiles is a cop’s son. He knows how this works. He drops his duffle by the sofa and spends a decent fifteen minutes just scouring the flat and his laptop for any sign of tampering. The _paranoia_ is only when, upon finding nothing, he still isn’t convinced. But Stiles only sends his customary “got home safe” texts to Scott, his Dad, and Melissa and settles down on his sofa with his laptop, a soda, and a giant popcorn bowl of Doritos.

“Back to work,” he crows with what is probably a disturbing amount of glee. He clicks through the right path of files on his laptop, until he gets so deep into mundane research folders and finds his prize – labeled: dramatistic pentad. Which, instead of opening up to a dissertation of dramaturgy, gives him the entirety of of the BHSD’s digital files on the Alpha killings.

As if he didn’t have several dummy files and backups all over his computer.

“Really, Dad, if you think taking the files is going to stop me, you’ve got another thing coming.” The vacation had turned out nice. A little traumatizing. But restful otherwise. But now it was time to get back to work.

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

The fact that Derek wakes up at all is disturbing. The fact that he wakes up on the floor of his hotel room is downright suspicious. He’s naked and his entire body aches. It takes a few minutes to piece together why he isn’t chained to his radiator. Slowly, painfully, Derek pulls himself upright to take inventory of himself. He’s a little dirty, but other than the ring of raw, scabbing skin around his left ankle, there’s no other injuries or blood on him. The wound smells faintly of wolfsbane, but Derek doesn’t feel the slow, creeping illness in him at all. So either it wasn’t a deadly strain of wolfsbane, or whatever caused the injury didn’t cut deep enough.

So he had run into hunters last night, then, rather than the Alpha. The idea of being grateful for hunters is a bitter one.

Derek climbs to his feet, wincing as his muscles protest. He doesn’t know what to think. His shift the night before had been an instinctual one. The entire night is a blank. And it leaves him with more questions than answers. He doesn’t feel the agonizing pull of the Alpha anymore. Did that mean the hunters had found them and killed them? Were there hunters in the area who had the skill to take down an Alpha? And if that was the case, how had Derek managed to run into them and escape with only a minor injury?

His head starts to throb just thinking about it. So Derek grits his teeth and limps all the way to the shower, hoping a good wash will clear his ankle of any wolfsbane and let it heal properly.

It’s not until he’s clean again, and just letting the hot water ease his aches that he realizes why he can’t feel the Alpha anymore:

It’s because there’s a sensitive new bond in its place.

“ _Fuck!_ ” He slams a hand on the tiles to avoid falling, a surge of shock and panic overtaking him so fast he gets lightheaded.

He has an Alpha. Not even the same Alpha that killed his sister. The new bond feels nothing like the Alpha that had called him here. And that makes no sense. He ran out into the night and… what, found not one, but _two_ Alpha werewolves and latched himself onto the least murderous one? How in the hell had he managed that?

The thought of breaking the bond rises almost immediately after the initial panic. He doesn’t want a Pack. (His Pack is long dead. He doesn’t deserve another one.) It would be nothing at all to break the bond with this new Alpha and run back to New York. The problem with that is… that he’ll be alone again. Not just alone, but vulnerable. Severing the link with this Alpha (Derek refused to even think of them as  _ his _ ) would make him just as susceptible to Laura’s murderer as he had been the night before.

He wants nothing to do with this Alpha he has somehow submitted to. But if it's necessary for his survival, then...

He shivers as the water goes cool, and quickly gets out. Derek dresses quickly, and spends the rest of the afternoon waiting for this mysterious Alpha to call Derek to them or to show up looking for him.  _ Something. _

But there’s nothing.

Instead, around mid-afternoon the heavy silence is broken as  his phone starts blaring Nicki Minaj's "Anaconda" at him.

 _By the way/ what he say?/ He can tell I ain't missin' no meals/_  
_Come through and fuck 'im in my automobile_  
_Let him eat it with his grills, and he keep tellin' me to chill/  
And he tellin' me it's real, that he love my sex appeal/_

" _Ceri_..." he growls at it, racing over and snatching it off the desk before it can keep going.

_Did you like the addition I made to your phone, handsome? ;)_

Derek glares at the text.

_You're the worst._

_I think you mean the BEST. Come on. You laughed. You totally cracked a smile._

Derek purses his lips, effectively smothering the small smile that’s just starting to form.

_More like I almost threw my phone across the room. How’s Chicago?_

_I’ll accept that response. >:) Chicago is fun, but cold as hell. It’s only October wtf. You sure you don’t want to take off work and come keep me company?_

As far as Ceri knows, Derek is supposed to be in New York, in their shared apartment, caught up in work. Not on the other side of the country fighting off one Alpha only to align himself with another. He considers telling Ceri everything right then. He makes it through a half a dozen attempts.

~~_Something happened. I'm in Beacon Hills_ ~~

~~_I think the person who murdered my sister is trying to_ ~~

~~_I'm in trouble_ ~~

~~_I might not be there when you get back_ ~~

~~_I need your help_ ~~

In the end, he doesn't choose any of them. Derek gazes in desperation at the blank text box, clutching his phone hard enough that the case starts to creak ominously.

 _No, you know how it is.  
_ _How's the photoshoot?_

It's a weak attempt of acting as if nothing's wrong. At least through text, the deception will go unnoticed.

 _Awful. The model isn’t cooperating, the traffic fucking bites_  
_it’s cloudy all the time so the lighting is shit._  
_But it’s got so much HISTORY that I don’t care._  
_Got some great culture shots for the article.  
I wish they’d let me do a People of New York style piece. This city has some great stories._

_I’m… sorry?_

_You should be._  
_But seriously, you should come out here for like a weekend. Have you ever actually been to Chicago?_  
_I could show you the sights! The very cold, windy sights.  
And your baby girl misses you! :p_

Derek huffs out a breathy laugh, momentarily forgetting at least some of his worries.

 _You’re the one who wouldn’t let me look after her.  
_ _And the one who whined that you couldn’t be away from her for even a day._

Ceri doesn’t reply for a while, and Derek is left staring intently at his phone. He’s just starting to wonder if Ceri got distracted, when his phone starts into “Anaconda” again and a picture pops up in the window. A raccoon kit is belly up on the floor, her little paws wrapped around Ceri’s fingers as they tickle her fat belly. Her mouth is open, ready to gnaw on them. It’s unfairly adorable.

 _See? The little gremlin misses you, Der-bear_ , the caption reads. He rolls his eyes at the pet name, and chooses to blatantly ignore it.

_What have you been feeding her? She’s even fatter than the last time I saw her._

_She’s a growing baby and needs to eat every three hours! Of course she’s fat!_

_Uh-huh. I think someone’s been sneaking her treats._

_I’M not the one who does that in this household, Mister. YOU’RE the one that always spoils her dinner._

This is a fight they've had many times before and, Derek strongly suspects, they'll be having for the rest of his life. (Or whatever's left of it, a dark little voice reminds him.) He lets them go back and forth for a while, letting the familiarity ease the tension building in his shoulders. Until finally, Ceri gets frustrated.

_UR A BUTT._

_You like my butt. You say it all the time._

_Well YEAH. You have an ass sculpted by the gods, Der-bear. It's aesthetically pleasing to all forms of life. BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN UR NOT A BUTT._

And then, after a moment:

_I miss you and your stupidly attractive face._

Something clenches tight in Derek’s chest. It shouldn’t be as jarring as it is. Ceri says things like that all the time. He can even hear it in the same, affectionately teasing tone as it always is. His fingers hover over the screen, the words already in his mind but not able to manifest. Just like it always does. The words always seem to get stuck. Sometimes the guilt of not being able to say it makes him force the words out. Most times, he just doesn’t say anything at all.

But the idea that this could be his last chance to say anything leaves him cold.

_I miss you too. I’ll talk to you soon?_

It’s not even close to adequate. But it’s the only thing he can say.

The Alpha he’s now bonded to never shows up. By evening, Derek is fed up with wallowing in the anticipation and leaves the hotel. If this Alpha won’t come to him, he’ll find them. The cover of darkness allows him some privacy from the ever watchful eyes of Beacon Hills’ residents. He’s had enough of the knowing, pitying looks to last him a lifetime. For the first half hour he wanders aimlessly, not having the faintest clue where to start tracking the Alpha. Several times, he almost turns back. The scent of territory and forest rot is too much. It's by pure luck that he eventually comes across a familiar scent.  His instincts know the scent of "his" Alpha before the rest of him has the chance to process it.

At first, he suspects the faint familiarity of the scent is from the blurry memory of his night before – just his subconscious instincts going to work. The Alpha is local. Even though the trail is faint and old, Derek manages to follow it through most of the town. The thought of an Alpha squatting in his family’s territory makes his blood boil.

All of that changes when he reaches a point at the edge of the Preserve. The trail is only a few days old here. He can actually distinguish the scent – can relate it to the sweet smell of burning timber and fresh earth. But it’s also…

Human.

The Alpha is human. Which is impossible, and he’s sure it has to be a trick. Derek follows it back into the Preserve, swiftly picking his way through the rotting growth. It’s easier to push away the scent memories when focusing on the Alpha. It’s not until he stops at the base of a hill that the scent sparks a memory.

_“Dude, that was Derek Hale!”_

For a moment, Derek doesn’t even breathe.

“Shit.”

The gangly human is his Alpha.

Somehow.

He can't wrap his head around it. The man isn't a wolf, or any kind of shapeshifter. He doesn't have the scent now, and he didn't then, when his scent was at its strongest. There hadn't even been any trace of magic on him.

He retreats back to his hotel room, mind whirling too much to think properly. He spends the entire night trying to make sense of it, but nothing will come. He knows, only, that he has latched on to a very _human_ Alpha, who knows nothing of the kind of life Derek lives. Who probably doesn’t even realize what has changed, if he can even sense that much. There is nothing but the nature of the bond itself keeping Derek in Beacon Hills now. With the human unaware, Derek _could_ return to New York and never have to think about this place again. (That is, of course, a lie. Beacon Hills is in his blood and in his dreams, and it has never left him.)

But there’s still the matter of the Alpha werewolf – his sister’s killer, who’s making moves on his family’s ancestral territory.

He spends another day grappling with what to do. And then the next morning he finds himself emailing his boss, apologizing for his sudden departure and requesting a leave of absence in order to “take care of his family’s estate.” It’s not exactly a lie. But when his boss replies with sincere condolences and understanding, Derek still feels bad about it. The remainder of the day is taken up with phone calls to lawyers, accountants, and one very memorable call to the caretaker of one of his family’s buildings.

All Hale family assets, including properties, are in Derek’s name now; but Derek, like his sister before him, had been content to let investors and caretakers look after them. By the look of it, many of the Beacon Hills properties have fallen into disrepair. In fact, from what Derek had seen the night before, much of the town is in need of work. Empty or neglected buildings could be found on every street, and while the town is still beautiful, it is a fading beauty. It’s a shade of the town in Derek’s memories, when the territory was thriving. The upkeep of the territory, of better or worse, falls to him now.

And if that gives him a reason to stick around where he can track Laura’s murderer, then Derek is not about to pass up the chance.

 

\--------------------4---------------------

 

So it’s another night of zero sleep and obsessive research. Another night ending with Stiles the being blinded by the sunbeams suddenly pouring through his window after getting absorbed in his studies. No one can catch him in the act this time, though. He's still on mandatory (read: forced) leave for another day. And if his research has shifted focus from the Alpha case to wolves and cryptozoology then no one but him will _ever_ know that.

He can't say what makes him leave his apartment around mid-morning. Stiles is intimately familiar with the need to move, to pace, or even to simply stand and fidget as his mind works through something. He's had ADHD since childhood. Dealing with impulsivity is his life. That urge is his everyday. But today it can't be satisfied with pacing around his apartment. Ignoring it only makes it worse, and before long Stiles is pulling on his jacket and shoes with the intent of walking down to the corner convenience store for a much needed Monster.

Running into the landlord and caretaker of the building on the way down to the lobby isn’t out of the ordinary. Most of the time, Stiles actually looks forward to it with a strange glee. Finstock (who still insists that Stiles call him Coach even though he hasn’t been the man’s student for more almost five years) is even more eccentric now that he doesn’t have to censor himself – not that he ever did much of that to begin with. His stories are now even more outlandish and his “sage advice” more disturbing and fascinating than ever. So, yes, running into Finstock in the halls is a normal, if twisted part of his day.

The man who’s with Finstock today, though…

“Bilinski!” There’s no time to run. His reflexes are sluggish from exhaustion, and it leaves him just _standing_ there like an idiot as they approach. “Got someone to introduce you to: the owner of this fine mess. This is Bilinski, our resident deputy of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department. Lives in 4E. I taught him back in high school. Good kid, but can’t keep focus worth a damn. Assigned a paper for my econ class once and he gave back—“

 _Oh_ no, they are not telling this story right now.

“Derek Hale,” Stiles interjects before Finstock can continue with that line of thought. He sticks his hand out in greeting, trying not to cringe at how he must look. Because of _course_ Derek Hale would be the owner of his building. The universe _would_ throw that at him at even the slightest chance, let alone with the reality that the Hales had owned half of Beacon Hills before the fire and so _of course_ they would all belong to Derek Hale now. Of _course_ Derek Hale would choose to visit his building looking like he’s walked off the cover of a magazine. While _Stiles_ , on the other hand, looks like death warmed over.

_‘Don’t let them see you squirm, Stiles. It’s your own building. Well. His building—you live here! Own it.’_

“ _Stilinski_ , actually. Stiles Stilinski. We’ve met before.”

Derek Hale doesn’t shake his hand. His eyes flicker briefly down to it, and his expression goes pinched, like he’s smelled something foul. (To be fair, that’s probably Stiles. He hasn’t had a chance to shower yet, so sue him.) “Yeah. Few days ago, wasn’t it? You were out in the woods on our property.”

So he did remember that. And, hey, the ridiculously hot guy remembers him! Stiles will blatantly ignore the thinly veiled disdain on the man’s face if it means a confidence boost like that. Even dislike is better than invisibility (as his many fruitless years of crushing on Lydia Martin showed). He could just leave it at that.

“Yeah, but before that too, actually.” Is he actually doing this?

Hale’s (highly expressive) brows draw together, perplexed.

He’s totally doing this. “Uh, six years ago, actually? Last time you were in town. At least, I assume that’s the last time you were in town because this place isn’t that big and news travels fast.” He’s rambling. Shit. “So, you know. Last time you were here we ran into each other? At least, that’s what my buddy, Scott, tells me because I don’t remember much of it. I, uh, had an overdose. Bad reaction to some meds I was on. Like, really bad. Like I probably could have died, bad. And you were there and Scott says you called the ambulance? Which, I mean, thanks. I didn’t even know it was you or I would have like, tracked you down and thanked you somehow? Not that I was in any condition to… they kept me in the hospital on mandatory suicide watch for a bit--" That is not what he wanted to say. At all. “Not that it was like that! I tried to tell them that after I could, you know, talk, but I wasn’t going through a great time then and…”

Derek Hale is staring at him, his eyes now more horrified than disgusted. But otherwise, unreadable. Coach, however, is watching the exchange with shameless fascination.

“….and… uh. I’m just going to stop talking.”

There’s a few seconds of awkward silence, something that Stiles isn’t unaccustomed to happening in his presence. He opens his mouth to break it, maybe make his hasty escape. Because he is far too tired for this.

But Hale beats him to the punch. With his face drawn into a scowl, he says, “I never did anything like that. Your friend must be mistaken.”

_Oh._

His face heats, and Stiles just _knows_ he’s a highly unattractive shade of red now. He wants to protest, but Hale is looking at him like he’s a particularly strange bug he’d found at his feet and his insides just _wither_ in mortification. “I… yeah, I guess, right? It was a while ago,” Stiles finds himself saying. His mouth is moving on autopilot. “Right. Sorry. Yeah. Enjoy the rest of Finstock’s tour. Welcome to whatever the hell this is, and all that.”

Stiles darts past them for the stairs, not stopping until he’s bursting through the lobby doors. He's going to need an entire six pack of energy drinks to live this down.

Making a fool of himself in front of attractive people is his life, apparently.

 

\-----------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 4.**


	5. And this one might be a battle (might not turn out okay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles Stilinski is pushing him to _wit’s end._
> 
> Derek can’t go anywhere without, knowingly or unknowingly, being pulled by the human’s will. He can't leave his apartment without bumping into him. Derek can't stay in the penthouse apartment of the building without being overtaken by urges that aren't his own. Stiles Stilinski has a mind that doesn't _rest._ With the bond between Alpha and Beta so new, every emotion is like a buzz beneath Derek's skin. Even to the point where _cravings_ merge with each other, and then it's too late for Derek to realize that his sudden desire for coffee from a very particular cafe that he remembers from his high school years is not his own - it's _Stilinski's_. 
> 
> He spends an entire day with a relentless craving for curly fries. Derek doesn’t even _like_ curly fries. But _Stiles Stilinski_ does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Some (good) chaos in my life made finishing this chapter much slower than I hoped it would be. But it's a longer one, with hopefully enough Stiles/Derek interaction and humor as well as some plot development! I actually have an entire other scene that I had to cut out - the backstory of Stiles and Derek's first meeting. If any of you are interested in reading that, just let me know either in the comments or [on my Tumblr!](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/) And if you'd like to talk about anything else from this 'verse, character backstory and/or headcanon, PLEASE feel free to come talk to me too! :D
> 
> Happy reading!

\--------------------1---------------------

 

Stiles knows better than to think that he can get away without seeing Hale for the foreseeable future. The few days respite that he has is only due to the fact that, other than going back to the station for work, Stiles doesn’t leave his apartment. It’s justified, though. Stiles deserves a few days to himself to work through the abject humiliation and no one can tell him otherwise. He tries to focus on other things. Current caseload and his ongoing research with the Alpha case and the fragment of wire from the hunter’s snare he’d found.

(His father gives him _A Look_ when he puts it through to the lab. “I found a dog in some kind of trap in the woods,” Stiles is quick to explain. “Nothing to do with _my case!_ ”

“Well if it’s one thing, it’s another, I guess,” his dad eventually sighs.)

But his reprieve is bound to end. And it does in the form of a tenant’s meeting in one of the common rooms. (Seriously. Their building has common areas. It’s a lackluster place now, but it must have been pretty damned swanky in the past.) An entire meet and greet with the owner of the building and their new landlord, to discuss what changes need to be made and what improvements they’d like to see and on and on and on.

It means Derek Hale is there, front and center. Not that he looks anymore pleased to be there than Stiles is to see him. Mostly he just stands there looking delectably scowly while Coach takes care of the talking, adding in short speeches where it’s necessary to show who the new boss in town is. And Stiles is Stiles, so he manages to knock his chair over at some point and snark off when it’s his turn to list his grievances with the building. Which draws Hale's attention to him, with that same piercing look of disdain. Like he's picturing all the ways he can make Stiles' death look like an accident.

Scott is right. And Stiles even tells him so this time, because what _is_ it with Stiles and the people he finds insanely _oh god do me now_ attractive being such assholes? Because even now Stiles wants to climb that man like a tree.

("It was him, Stiles," Scott tells him for what's probably the tenth time since his and Hale's disastrous reunion. "It's not exactly like I can forget anything about what happened."

"I believe you, dude. But I wasn't exactly all there at the time, so it's not like I have evidence to say 'hey, no, it was totally you.'"

"Why would he lie about that?"

"I dunno, Scotty. Maybe he's just a jerk with a reputation to protect. Like Danny Zuko. Summer lovin' and all that."

"You almost died, Stiles. That isn't exactly the same as a summer fling."

"Believe me I _wish_ a random summer fling was our connection, dude. A lot more fun. Less near death experiences.")

If that's the only interaction Stiles had with Derek Hale, he would have been happy. He could just go about his business and (eventually - hopefully) forget that anything had ever happened. Even seeing Hale every once in a while in their building would have been okay. But that isn't how this goes.

He sees Hale _everywhere_. Barely a day goes by where Stiles doesn't see the man at some point. At the supermarket, near the station, when he and Scott are getting takeout, at the garage when Stiles was getting his Jeep worked on, when he goes out to Mrs. Abernathy’s to reassure her about her neighbors (again). Stiles would be paranoid, but Beacon Hills is a small town and Hale always looks incredibly miffed to see him. More than likely, it’s just the universe giving Stiles a big old _fuck you._

Because that’s what it does to Stiles.

Which is why Stiles isn’t too surprised when he walks into his favorite café and glimpses a familiar dark-haired someone in the far corner. Hale glances up from the laptop he’s currently staring intently at, does a double-take, and full on _glares_ at Stiles. He plasters the most casual grin he can muster, waving lazily as he walks up to the counter. “Excuse me for going to the best coffee shop in town, asshole,” he mutters under his breath the minute his back is turned.

There's a quiet sound from the corner Hale is sitting in, an indignant rush of breath that Stiles can hear perfectly because it’s just him and Hale in the little cafe at this time of day. For a second, Stiles is paranoid that Hale managed to hear that. Even though he knows otherwise, his face heats.

"Erica!" he calls out, leaning over the counter. There’s an explosion of noise from the back and fast footsteps, and the lone barista zips out of the back room in a blur of blond curls.

“Stiles!” She meets him at the counter, flinging herself into his arms for a few brief seconds. “I haven’t seen you for almost two weeks. You haven’t been cheating on me with another coffee shop, have you?”

“And miss out on spending time with the prettiest barista in all of Beacon Hills? No way!”

The barista, Erica Reyes, huffs in clear disbelief at him, pulling a stray lock of hair back into place under her cap. Like most of the kids in Beacon Hills, the two of them have been aware of each other's existence since elementary school. But until recently, they’d never held more than a short conversation with each other. Which is something Stiles truly regrets now, because Erica? Erica’s awesome. And not just because she makes the best damned coffee in Beacon Hills and is happy to supply Stiles with his necessary caffeine intake. At first Erica had been quiet, perhaps even reluctant to talk to him. But she’s gradually opened up, revealing a determined will and stinging wit. And that’s something that’s just as entertaining as it is sometimes intimidating.

“You are! You totally are. Ganessa at Starbucks? Doesn’t even come close.”

“Uh-huh,” she deadpans, already going through the motions of making his usual. “You just say that when you want coffee.”

“I’m _in_ here when I want coffee. Just because that’s usually when I see you doesn’t mean that’s why I say it.” He props his chin on his hands and gives her his best innocent face.

They know each other too well now for her to fall for it. “How much adderall have you had today?”

Well, shit. “Only my regular dose,” he says smoothly.

“So why do you look like you haven’t slept for days? You know mixing caffeine and too much adderall is bad for you.”

Stiles purses his lips. “I’ve been working. Sometimes I lose sleep. So I need a little _caffeine_ to get my brain to chill.” He leans in close over the counter. “And how much have you had today? You _know_ caffeine doesn’t go well with your epilepsy.” It causes her to hiss at him, but Stiles feels vindicated. “How’s the college fund?” he asks after a beat of silence.

She’s not perturbed by his sudden shift in focus, only humming as she sets his steaming mug of caffeinated ambrosia in front of him. “Not quite there yet. Not sure if I’ll have enough to move out and go back by next fall.”

“Still don’t want to go back while living with your parents?”

Erica gives him a deadpan look for asking a question he already knew the answer to. “It took me a year to get them to let me go away for college in the first place. And then I failed that. If they had their way, I wouldn’t even have this job. I’d just do something from home.”

“That’s rough,” Stiles replies sympathetically, taking a sip of his coffee. And chokes as it burns his mouth.

Erica’s smirk is downright mean. “No shit.” And her eyes don’t quite flick past his shoulder, but Stiles can see her focus shift. “So who’s Hottie McDo-Me over there that keeps staring at you?”

Stiles just barely stops himself from looking over his shoulder. Not that he needs to. He can feel the glare burning at the back of his skull, almost a physical heat. “Oh. Uh. That’s Derek Hale. Owns my building. Doesn’t like me.”

“Derek _Hale_?” Erica's voice lowers, and she leans over the counter towards him. "Like those serial killings you're so obsessed with?"

Stiles doesn't even bother to deny it this time. “Right? Hotter than the sun _and_ intriguing and he hates my guts. What’s not to love?” Erica keeps glancing over at the man, and Stiles can’t really blame her. He turns in his chair, observes the way Hale is now firmly engrossed with his laptop. “Why don’t you go ask him out? Maybe he’s not as surly with pretty blondes.”

Erica smacks his arm with a dish rag. “I’m not asking him out!”

“Why not? You think he’s hot, right? Slip him your number. Coffee shops are perfect for that!”

“One, I’m not feeling the whole ‘humiliate myself in front of a hot guy’ thing today. Two, he’d never say yes.”

“You don’t know that.”

Her expression goes harsh. “Everyday of my life tells me that. Guys don’t notice I exist.”

“That’s not true,” Stiles huffs.

“You never did.” She’s not looking at him anymore, her mouth pinched into a conflicted frown. And Stiles’ mind promptly short circuits.

“Wha-- No. What.” His fingers tap nervously on the counter. “ _Me?_ ”

Erica shrugs, her eyes still firmly averted to the counter. “I had a crush on you back in high school,” she says with deceptive flippancy. “But you only had eyes for _Lydia Martin_.”

Who only had eyes for Jackson Whittemore. Stiles knows _exactly_ what that feels like, and it only makes him feel even lower. He runs a hand through his hair, digging his nails into his scalp with the urge to scratch. “Past tense, huh?”

“Yeah. I moved past it.”

There’s a wealth of unsaid things in that, and Stiles has gone through most of them. “Hey, Erica?” he asks quietly. He waits for her to meet his eyes. “I really missed out.”

A blush steals across Erica’s face, soft and pleased. “Yeah, you really did.”

Stiles reaches over the counter, tapping near her hand but not moving to take it. He wants to, but he’s not sure it would be welcomed. “When you find a guy you really like, tell him, okay? Because sometimes people are stupid and don’t realize what’s right in front of them.”

“Sure. But only if they’re the really good ones.”

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

(His smell is all wrong. Sick. Altered. It’s coming off the boy in such thick waves that Derek fights not to retch. Pale skin. Erratic heartbeat. Too fast. It’s beating so fast it must be hurting him. His eyes dart sightlessly.

Derek realizes what’s about to happen just before the boy collapses. “Your friend is having an overdose.”

And then it’s all he can do to focus on keeping the boy alive until the ambulance can get there.

_Recovery position. Lying on back, tip head back. Keep airways open. Don’t panic._

The boy’s eyes, huge and expressive and the color of rich amber - they should be beautiful. Instead they haunt his mind for months afterwards.)

So Derek lied. He didn’t recognize him until it was brought up, but he has met Stiles Stilinski before. The reconciliation of Derek’s memories of the boy (gangly, pale, sick, _dying_ ) with Stiles Stilinski (lean, devious, unintentionally sensual, _Alpha_ ) was a jarring experience. Too much for him to handle at the time. So he lied.

The look on Stilinski’s face when he denied it is still burned into his eyes – the confusion and disappointment still fills his chest with lead every time he remembers. It’s one of the hardest lies Derek has ever told. Lying to one’s Alpha is… difficult. When it’s a werewolf Alpha, nearly impossible. But the bond makes lying even to a human difficult. All of Derek’s instincts revolt against the idea. But he never expected to run into his new Alpha here, where he’s going to be living for the foreseeable future. Pushing him away with a lie was the best thing Derek could’ve done. It’s a matter of survival.

Because Stiles Stilinski is pushing him to _wit’s end._

Derek can’t go anywhere without, knowingly or unknowingly, being pulled by the human’s will

Stilinski isn’t a werewolf. He doesn’t have any idea how to control and temper the bleedthrough of emotion that comes with these bonds, especially fresh ones.

Derek is subconsciously drawn to the siren call of it. He can't leave his apartment without bumping into him. Derek can't stay in the penthouse apartment of the building without _feeling_ Stilinski just a floor below him. Stiles Stilinski has a mind that doesn't _rest_. With the bond between Alpha and Beta so new, every emotion is like a buzz beneath Derek's skin. Even to the point where _cravings_ merge with each other, and then it's too late for Derek to realize that his sudden desire for coffee from a very particular cafe that he remembers from his high school years is not his own - it's _Stilinski's_. And then Derek is forced to sit there and pretend he can't clearly hear the man talk about him with the barista.

He spends an entire day with a relentless craving for curly fries. Derek doesn’t even _like_ curly fries. But _Stiles Stilinski_ does.

("What kind of a name is _Stiles_?" he grouses as he and Finstock go over the tenant files.

"A much better one than his actual name, trust me." Finstock is simultaneously grating and entertaining, fascinating in a sick sort of way. Always has been. "He's got some kind of inherited name. Looks more like someone fell asleep on the keyboard when they made up his birth certificate. So I just put Stiles on the file instead.")

Derek has been an Omega for six years. He’s accustomed to the hollow ache that comes with it – the feeling of utter loneliness that threatens to rise up and devour him at any moment. Werewolves aren’t meant to be without a Pack. Omegas often degrade, go feral and erratic until they’re put down either by hunters or a nearby Pack. They usually don’t last as long as Derek has. He could feel it, some days. The all-encompassing tide swallowing him up.

(On his bad days, when Derek can’t even get himself out of bed, Ceri is there. Ceri – who should be Pack, _would_ be Pack if Derek wasn’t such a coward – comes to him and tends to him, makes sure he eats and curls up with him for the whole day. Lets Derek press his face into their throat and pretend that he deserves to have a Pack. On those days, he can pretend he isn’t an Omega. It’s the only thing that keeps him sane.)

He’s used to the depressive crush of being an Omega. This, on the other hand, is almost _manic_. He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. It brings back memories of full moons before he could control the shift. Restless, skin too tight, oversensitive.

He lets it slip in the middle of a conversation with Ceri.

_I need to get out of here. I’m ready to peel my skin off._

_Is it a bad day?_

Derek immediately winces.

 _No. I’m just restless.  
_ _I think I’m going go upstate and take a run._

The lie feels wrong. Ceri has been one of the only good things in his life since Laura died. _‘You’re a horrible person, Derek Hale.’_

But he can feel Stilinski’s mind whirling, unchecked by any restraint any _real_ Alpha would have. He can hear him pacing. And pacing. And muttering.

Derek is ready to murder him.

_Have fun in your wolfskin! Don’t terrorize any poor, unsuspecting humans!_

_No promises._

He’s got a particular human in mind anyway.

Derek’s quick to shed his clothes, and sheds his human form even faster. The warm ripples of magic are far more soothing than his last transformation, which had been so violently ripped out of him that he _ached_ for days after. He stretches his paws out in front of him and arches, a low rumble in his throat. His mind is clearer this way, less burdened by all the inhibitions that come with being human. It's nothing at all for him to nose open his window and jump down onto the fire escape. He doesn’t even think twice about padding down the iron stairs and watch him through the window.

Stilinski is pacing the floor mindlessly. His hair is sticking up at all angles, and getting even worse every time he absently runs his fingers through it and tugs at it. His eyes are bloodshot and ringed with red, his lip swollen where he’s been chewing at it. Derek had only intended to stand at the window. The thought of Stilinski looking up and shrieking at seeing a wolf on his fire escape was just too delicious. But Stilinski doesn’t so much as glance in his direction. The buzz beneath his skin only continues to amplify the more agitated his Alpha becomes.

He doesn’t resist the pull. Derek hops through the open window. His claws tap against the floor, padding his way over to the oblivious human. He even sits down within the squared off “sitting room” area that the couch, wall, and armchairs create. Perfectly within sight of Stilinski’s pacing. But the man doesn’t look up until Derek lets out an echoing _wff_. And then Stilinski jolts as if he’s been struck.

“Wha…?” He stops so fast that his momentum almost causes him to topple over. His wide – too wide, how are his eyes seriously that big and expressive? – glassy eyes flick around the room as he whirls around, finally landing on Derek and freezing. Stilinski stares at him for a long time, completely motionless. He’s not even breathing. In fact he starts looking a little red in the face from lack of oxygen. And when he finally gasps, Derek chuffs.

"Whoa," Stilinski murmurs, "Haven’ b’n th’sshleep depr’ved ina while." His words slur together, and upon hearing it his upturned nose scrunches. “Ugh. Why do my hall’cinations turn up as freaky wolfdogs?” Stilinski waits a beat, and then waves a hand at him. “Well? No sage advice? A figment of my imagination should at least talk.”

He really does believe what he’s saying, which proves how _utterly_ gone he is. No wonder Derek feels ready to crawl out of his skin. He only huffs in response. This seems to be enough for the other man, who shrugs and clumsily flops down onto the couch.

“So I guess m’subconscious knows I can keep up a one-sided conversation even with my hallucinations. Great. Well, plop a seat, Big Bad. If you’re gonna be my sounding board, y’need to be closer.” He pats the front of the couch beside his knee. And Derek can’t resist obeying. He’s too tightly wound after the slow torture of his Alpha’s siren call. He just barely manages to stop himself from rubbing against Stilinski’s legs like an over affectionate puppy.

He still ends up pressing his side against him. Just a little.

The man thinks he’s a hallucination. He never has to know.

“Right. This guy – I mean statistically it’s gonna be but maybe Kira’s right and it’s a particularly violent lady or maybe even neither. I am a forward-thinking crime stopper and all. Y’gotta be if you wanna crack the really tough cases. Could you imagine how many cold cases we’d solve if detectives and criminal profilers let go of their biases?” Derek tunes him out at that point. Not that a discussion on statistical probabilities versus stereotypical bias wouldn’t be interesting, but trying to translate it from Stilinski’s insomnia-induced ramblings is too exhausting to even consider. He props his muzzle on his Alpha’s knee, and waits for him to find his way back to the point.

“--so, yeah. Anyway, I can’t figure this dude - gender neutrally speaking - out. Everyone is hell bent on calling them a serial killer, but there wasn’t even a cooldown period which is - _hello_ \- the mark of a serial killer. Victims seven through nine barely had a few days between them! No, they’re a goddamned spree killer. But the victims weren’t picked based on opportunity. Four of them were killed out in the Preserve, including the first and last victims. Laura Hale was found on Hale property, though. And so was Kate Argent. She was found in the old Hale house, actually. Maybe the killer operated out of Hale property? No one goes out there anymore…”

Derek’s body goes cold, unable to restrain the whine that leaves him. He’d guessed from overhearing Stilinski’s conversation with the barista, Erica, that he was investigating Laura’s murder. He’d even known there had been other victims of the Alpha responsible. But he’s never looked into it. He had no idea that _Kate_ had been one of them.

He feels a rush of gratitude towards the Alpha for that fact alone, and it makes his stomach tie itself in knots.

 _‘Hunters,’_ he concludes, _‘The others must have been hunters, or those connected to them.’_ The first rule of gaining territory is neutralizing any threat to it. Annihilating a group of Hunters moving freely about the territory would be the first priority.

Stilinski absently strokes between his ears even as he continues speaking. The comforting touch, even one so small and unexpected, has him nuzzling into the rough denim beneath his snout.

He’ll never speak of this to anyone.

His Alpha is still mumbling overhead, eyes locked onto the laptop screen in front of him even if they’re drooping lower and lower. “Peter Hale’s death is weird too. Complications due to his catatonic state, but it’s too convenient. And Jennifer Kisler’s body was found only a few days later…” Stilinski leans back with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s too much to be a coincidence. There’s gotta be a connection between the Hales and the others…”

There is. There’s only two options from those deductions: either the Alpha killed Peter to rid him of his connection to the territory, and silenced Peter’s nurse along with him; or Jennifer was a hunter, and killed Peter before the Alpha found her.

Derek isn’t sure which possibility hurts worse. He doesn’t want to think about it.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Stilinski’s voice get fainter and fainter, until his breathing goes even and his heartbeat eases. Derek blinks, lifting his head from Stilinski’s knee. The man has fallen asleep where he’s sitting, head lolling against the back of the couch and his chin propped on his shoulder. His lips are parted just slightly, the tension in his face smoothing out with sleep. Derek shouldn’t find it endearing.

And yet…

Derek lifts his front paws onto the couch and, gently, clutches the man’s sleeve in his teeth. Stilinski mutters and shifts, but doesn’t wake, as Derek tugs him down onto the couch. He tugs the blanket off the back of the couch next, fussing with it even as the human wriggles into a more comfortable position.

He can’t be blamed for nosing against Stilinski’s jaw, effectively nuzzling him back into slumber. It’s just instinct, after all.

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

“ _Genus: Aconitum._ ”

His attention on the report snaps. Stiles cranes his head back, jumping as he comes face-to-face with Parrish, who’s reading the email over his shoulder. “Uh. Yeah.”

Parrish grins at him, unrepentant as he continues reading. “ _Common name aconite, monkshood, or--_ ”

“Wolfsbane.”

“Huh.” Parrish leans back. “What’d you send off to forensics? Some new evidence in the Alpha case?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his fellow deputy, turning in his chair. “What makes you think that’s it?”

Parrish crosses his arms; shrugs good-naturedly. “Because it’s weird. And the Alpha case is weird. And you’re the expert on the Alpha case, sooo…”

“By association, I’m weird?”

“I didn't say that,” Parrish replies just a little too innocently. He lets the implication linger between them, before nodding at the screen. “So, is it?”

“No, no. It’s… when I was on _vacation_ \--” Forced health leave. “-- I found this trap out in the woods that had caught somebody’s dog. It smelled like it had been dipped in something, so I thought toxin, maybe? Turns out I was right. Aconite’s poisonous. Really poisonous. Some species of it can poison you just by touch. I’m lucky this isn’t one of those because I touched the trap with my bare hands.”

“So someone was using it on animals?”

“Yeah. Which I’m pretty sure is illegal. I was gonna notify the Rangers out in that area.”

Parrish looks thoughtful. “But why _wolfsbane_? Aren’t there other, more accessible things they could use?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s definitely not something you can just buy.”

“Maybe someone was hunting monsters.” At Stiles’ disbelieving expression, Parrish leans his hip against the desk, shrugging one shoulder. “Wolfsbane is all over mythology, right? Monster myths and all. And Hollywood makes it even more of a cult myth. Some stupid kids thinking they’re going to be the next Van Helsing, you think?”

Stiles gets as far as opening his mouth before he remembers the creature he encountered in the forest.

It seems like one giant hallucination. It feels as if he’s been experiencing those with disturbing frequency nowadays. (Waking up on his couch, covered and with his laptop closed down after dreaming of the wolf again is still fresh in his memory.)

“Maybe,” he concedes at last. Parrish doesn’t seem to notice his uncharacteristic pause, though.

“We’ve been getting some weird reports, you know. Not anything we can do with ‘em. Hikers saying they’re seeing something big out at the far end of the Preserve. Something big and black.”

Stiles’ heart starts to race, so hard it actually hurts for a moment. “Y-Yeah?”

“Hm,” Parrish nods. “It’s probably a bear. Or drunk hikers. Maybe both.”

“Yeah, yeah totally…”

He’s saved from working himself into an anxiety spiral by his father rushing out of his office, face drawn in stony concentration as he tugs his jacket on. It’s an expression that means lots of work and nothing good. Stiles is on his feet immediately.

“I need everyone not out on patrol to head to Linda Vista Estates, address 217 Selwood Road. We have a 1-8-7.”

_‘Homicide.’_

The word repeats in Stiles’ head. His ears almost ring with it. Even as he’s jumping to gather his things along with the small handful of his fellow deputies that are still at the station. Murder. There’s been a murder. And a significant one if his dad is calling all available hands on deck.

“Not you.”

Stiles shoots upright at the Sheriff’s voice. “Huh?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s frowning at him. “Not you,” he repeats. “You’re staying here to man the desk.”

For a moment Stiles is sure he’s heard that right, and then he can’t _believe_ he’s heard that right. “Uh. What? No!” He gesticulates angrily when his father’s frown only sharpens. “ _No._ I’m not a rookie anymore and I’ve jumped through enough of your hoops! You can’t keep me back here while everyone else gets called out to a high profile case without a good--” A thought strikes him mid-sentence. He rounds on the Sheriff, taking in the pinched furrow of his brows and the knowing dread in his eyes. “It looks like the Alpha’s work, doesn’t it?”

His father, tellingly, doesn’t answer him.

“There’s no _way_ you’re keeping me from this, Dad.”

“I can, and you aren’t going near it.” Sheriff Stilinski brushes past him with an air of finality. “You’re not authorized to take a cruiser by yourself yet, and Parrish is already gone. And I’m not driving you.” He doesn’t give Stiles a chance to protest, straightening his badge on his hip and walking out of the station.

“This is not going to become a habit!” Stiles calls after him. “You can’t just shoot down everything I say and walk out before I can argue!”

Predictably, he gets no response.

“This is payback for all those years I made you eat heart-healthy, isn’t it?!”

And no answer to that either.

He waits until he hears his dad’s cruiser roll out of the parking lot to leap into action. He grabs his gear and his keys, jotting down a quick note to Cinda explaining where everyone has gone for when she gets back from her break (they actually _have_ a person whose job it is to man the desk and plenty of extra deputies that are on patrol; _they don’t need Stiles just sitting around, thank you_ ). There’s no one around to judge him as he runs for his Jeep.

“I’m not just sitting at my desk while _my case_ just falls into our laps. Is he crazy?”

The Jeep sputters when he turns the key in the ignition.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, not now!”

He tries again. And a third time just for hysteria’s sake. Ire rising, Stiles hops out of the Jeep and pops the hood. The problem is immediately apparent.

The spark plugs are gone.

“Damnit, Dad!” He slams the hood shut with enough force to send pain jolting up his arm. “Shit,” he curses, absently realizing he’s started to pace. “Shit!” His chest feels tight, like someone is squeezing their fist around his lungs and it’s not a panic attack but _goddamn_ the anxiety and anger is almost just as suffocating as one. He clasps his hands against his sleeves, fighting off the urge to scratch at any skin he can reach.

He can’t let this stop him. Stiles too much invested in the case - too much of his time, too much of his health, and life, and _sanity_ has been poured into it. He’ll _walk_ all the way across town before he lets anyone keep him from it.

He’s ready to do just that, to hitch up his jacket and start walking, when a sleek, black Camaro comes tearing into the station’s parking lot. A _familiar_ sleek, black Camaro. “What the hell?” he mutters.

It glides smoothly up beside him, the passenger window rolling down to reveal Derek Hale’s unfairly attractive face. He’s exuding cool with his dark sunglasses, perfectly styled hair and beard, and slick leather jacket. Stiles could just punch him.

In the mouth.

With his mouth.

_‘Focus, Stilinski.’_

“Get in,” Hale says.

“Uh. What? No. Why are you here?”

He has the distinct impression Hale is rolling his eyes behind his sunglasses. “You’re stranded. Get in.”

Stiles lunges for the door, adrenaline trumping paranoia, even as he asks: “How’d you know I needed a lift?”

“I was driving by and saw you out here. Where to?” Hale’s not looking at him as he drives back onto the road. And there’s… something not quite right about his words. Stiles can’t put his finger on it.

“Really? You weren’t following me? Because we have been seeing a lot of each other, dude. It’s starting to get creepy.”

Hale swivels his head around to look at him. Stiles can’t see his eyes, but from the downturn of his lips and the incredulous arch of his brows, he’d say Hale is giving him a withering glare.

“Well? It is!”

“Where do you need to go, Stilinski?” Hale sighs back at him. “Our building?”

It’s his building, technically. But the inclusion is kind of nice. “No! 217 Selwood Road. As fast as this baby can go. Now. I needed to be there like _yesterday._ ”

Hale arches a brow at him. “You want me to break traffic laws?”

“You have an on-duty deputy in the car. Consider me unofficially commandeering the vehicle. Go!”

Hale’s face briefly tips towards the roof of the car, as if he’s asking it for strength (not a reaction Stiles is unaccustomed to), and then does just that. The Camaro lunges forward, and Stiles slams a hand onto the dashboard to keep himself in his seat. “Hold on,” Hale warns, smirking and perfectly aware of how belated it is.

What a jackass.

“If I get pulled over, I’m throwing you under the bus.”

“If you get me to this crime scene, Hale, and the entire town will be in your debt from now until the end of time. The hero of Beacon Hills, aiding the county’s finest in apprehending our nemesis.”

“Crime scene?” And… he’s said too much. Hale’s hands grip the steering wheel. “Is this… your guy? The guy that killed Laura?”

It brings the frenzy in Stiles’ thoughts grinding to a halt. For a moment he’d forgotten that he isn’t with Scott or his dad or one of the other deputies. He’s with someone who’s been directly affected by the Alpha. Whose life has been shattered by them. He grimaces. “Uh. Yeah, maybe? It could just be someone copying the Alpha’s method. Or even just an actual animal mauling-- what?”

The other man is looking at him, full on staring at him instead of watching the road and wow, no, he doesn’t want to die like this, thanks. “Eyes on the road, dude!” he yelps.

“ _Alpha?_ ” Hale growls back at him, thankfully pulling the car to a stop before they can both die horrible, high-speed deaths. He doesn’t elaborate on his question, just stares at Stiles with an intensity that is actually a little frightening.

“Yeaaah…? It’s… shit, don’t spread that around, okay? No one calls them that except at the station. We didn’t want it getting out because, y’know, once you give a criminal a name in the media, it gives them an ego boost and encourages them. The amount of coverage the local news had on the killing spree was enough.”

“How’d they get that name?”

Stiles shrugs uncomfortably, leaning closer to the window. Hale hasn’t moved, isn’t even leaning over the center console, but it still feels like he’s _looming_. “There was a drifter just after the bodies stopped showing up. They caught him attempting to rob a grave and brought him in. He was… pretty unstable. Said he was looking for ‘the Alpha.’ Said they called him here and… and some other crazy stuff. The report reads mostly like gibberish. They held him for a night, and he disappeared after that. That’s it? The name just stuck.”

 _‘Stop staring at me!’_ he thinks hysterically. Hale’s gaze hasn’t wavered in the slightest, so intense that Stiles can almost feel it on his skin. Which… isn’t exactly an _unpleasant_ sensation, to make matters worse. His skin prickles, feeling too hot and too tight over his bones and his stomach is doing this exhilarating dip _all from a single look, Christ, Stiles, get it together._

When Hale finally does look away, Stiles can’t hide his relieved sigh. Nor can he hide the way he all but leaps from the car the moment they pull up to the police barricade on Selwood. He even has to pretend he’s surveying the situation instead of reining control back in before he can even look at Hale. “Look, Hale…” he mutters when he’s able to turn and lean his elbow on the window to look at him.

“Derek.”

His heart gives a dizzy little stutter. “Uh-?” And when Hale-- _Derek_ only gazes at him, not at all like he’s starring in some dramatic romance (or even like he’s starring in a _porno_ , which Stiles would be more than happy with as a consolation) but rather like he’s going to slam his foot on the gas if Stiles asks him to repeat himself, Stiles steamrolls ahead. “Derek. Thanks. For driving me out here. It--”

A hand claps onto his shoulder.

Stiles _absolutely_ does not scream.

“ _Stiles_.”

“Dad!” he yelps, fumbling out of the way as the Sheriff steps up to the car.

“Son.” And that is definitely “you’re in big trouble” tone #4 with “extremely disapproving” face #7.

Stiles grins widely at him. “Sorry I’m late. Looks like something’s _wrong with the Jeep._ It just wouldn’t start. Luckily, I caught a ride.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrow into slits, and Stiles swears his cheeks go a little flushed. But Stiles is utterly unrepentant this time around. His grin doesn’t falter, not until his father leans down to peer into the car, and startles.

“Sheriff,” Derek greets. Stiles can’t see his expression from this angle, but his tone is hesitant. Straining to be polite, perhaps? Or just cautious when staring down the face of the law?

“Derek Hale,” Sheriff Stilinski replies. “I didn’t know you were back in town, son.”

“Haven’t been here long. Taking care of the estate.”

“Oh. Uh. You might want to look into the old house, then? There’ve been rumblings about condemning it and knocking it down for years now.”

“I’ll… I’ll do that. ….Thanks.”

There’s a moment of _painfully_ awkward silence that has Stiles opening his mouth to break. But his dad beats him to the punch. “Thanks for giving Stiles a ride.” And then he sighs. “Otherwise I’m sure he would’ve walked here,” he adds ruefully.

“It’s… nothing. If he needs a ride back to the apartment, he has my number.”

Stiles has the _building’s_ number. The special _"building manager’s"_ number that all of the tenants get in case of emergency. It used to be Finstock’s number, but Finstock isn’t technically his landlord anymore, so...

Holy shit, he has _Derek Hale’s_ number. And he _hasn’t_ used that power for nefarious deeds yet?

He’s ashamed of himself.

“...Right. Nice seeing you again, son. Take care.”

The pair of them step back as the Camaro pulls away, and watch it in silence until it rounds the corner off of Selwood.

“You have his number, huh?” his father drawls.

“He owns my building!” Stiles exclaims, swinging an arm around and his entire body swaying with the momentum. “He’s talking about the official landlord number. Everyone has it. But I am _flattered_ you think I can snag someone that hot and that far out of my league, Dad.”

The Sheriff appears less than believing. “You can do anything you set your mind to, son.” The words are genuine, but combined with the droll expression, it comes off as thinly-veiled sarcasm.

Stiles points an accusing finger at him. “You don’t get to give me shit after that stunt you pulled! I want my spark plugs back.”

“A lot of good it did me. It was supposed to stall you long enough to rule this out as an Alpha killing.”

“Yeah, what were you thinking-- wait. Wait. So you haven’t ruled it out yet?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s terse grimace sends his adrenaline pumping all over again. “We don’t need to. It’s all there. Claw and bite patterns are a visible match. Spiral’s missing. Could be a copycat. But...”

And that’s all that Stiles needs to send him scrambling between the police barricades and straight for the body. None of the other deputies attempt to stop him, or even seem to look up from their tasks as he nears.

It’s not his first corpse. But it’s definitely the bloodiest he’s seen thus far. To this point the only bodies he’s seen have been limited to morgue tables and glossy pictures in case files. “Oh my--” Stiles clicks his mouth shut to keep himself from retching.

When it’s post-autopsy and in pictures, it’s easy to separate between human and corpse. The corpses are cold, lifeless, alien. The crime scene photos - clinical and detached, if gruesome. But this, _this is fresh._ Some of the blood pooling beneath the body is still wet. The wounds, raw and ragged, aren’t the neat, tirelessly cleaned ones Stiles has seen. This is new and foul and blood and _meat_ and _this was a living person up until a few hours ago._

And don’t even get him started on the smell. He learns quickly to breathe through his mouth in slow, careful breaths to avoid emptying his stomach from the smell alone.

There’s not much of a person _left_. The torso has been rended open, organs exposed to the air. The face… is indistinguishable. There’ll be no telling who this unfortunate man was without dental records or fingerprints. His legs are missing, his pants nothing but strips of bloody denim past the thighs.

It’s gruesome, okay? It’s even more gruesome than some of the previous killings. This is the rabid destruction of a person.

Stiles runs a hand over his face, breath shaky. His father steps up beside him. “No wallet, no keys, no ID. But we did find this on him.” The Sheriff passes over a small evidence bag, inside a single bloodstained bullet. Made for a rifle, but Stiles can’t tell the exact caliber just by looking. What’s more intriguing is the symbol etched carefully into the shell casing.

“A flower?”

His father shrugs. “Could be significant. Could just be some hotshot gun enthusiast. We’ll send it to forensics anyway, see what they can find.”

“You’re putting me on lead for this.”

The Sheriff shoots him an arch look. “Oh, _am I_ now? I think you’ve misunderstood what your job is. See, I’m the Sheriff.” He taps the badge on his chest to demonstrate his point. “And you’re the rookie deputy. You don’t get to make demands like that.”

“ _No one_ in the department has studied this case more than me,” Stiles snaps, “I’ve spent literal _years_ on this case when everyone else was sure it was a lost cause or worse - actual animal attacks. Or _bigfoot_ , Dad! Do you remember that?”

Unlike Stiles, his father’s voice doesn’t rise above his normal tone. But it does get sharper, rougher. “I am _not_ handing a rookie barely out of his first year lead on a case like this. Even if you’re my son. _Especially_ because you’re my son. Do you even realize what that would look like?” Stiles clenches his fists, fury tight and suffocating in his chest. And then-- “You report to me. Bring Parrish up to speed on everything you’ve got. He’s a good, fair cop, and has the experience behind him.”

And then just like that, the restricting lump of anger dissipates so quickly he goes light-headed. “Wait, what?”

The Sheriff smiles wryly at him. “I’d be stupid not to put the station’s expert on this one… even if he is a rookie. But you put yourself in danger and that’s it, you’re off the case.”

“I-- You won’t--” There are too many things Stiles wants to say in that moment, and so it all comes out in excited gibberish, which his father waits patiently through. “You won’t regret this, Dad. I’ve got so many theories I’m working on!”

“Well, you might need to rework a few of them.” Sheriff Stilinski nods down at the victim. Even if it’s a reminder of the gravity of the situation, it can’t kill Stiles’ elation. “This sick son of a bitch just came off a cooldown. Technically, that makes him a serial killer. ...And one that’s evolving.”

 

\----------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 5.**


	6. I know I’m bad news (I saved it all for you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stilinski has no idea what he's stumbled onto.
> 
> But Derek does.
> 
> The Alpha is making their move on Hale territory. That much is clear. There’s no subtlety in the Alpha’s actions at all - the sheer violence of the kill is proof that the Alpha’s gone feral, driven by instinct. That means that Stilinski is now the Alpha’s primary target, as an Alpha competing for territory. Stiles Stilinski is in danger. Hunters might manage to save the town before the Alpha can cause irreparable damage to it, but Stilinski has no chance. Not unless Derek steps up.
> 
> There’s not much of a decision to be made. Derek knows he’s going to protect Stilinski even before he returns to his loft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally another chapter! I feel like this chapter didn't have as much happening in it as I originally wanted, but there also wasn't any part of this chapter that I wanted to give up in exchange for more plot advancement. Especially not the scene establishing Derek's relationships with people outside of Beacon Hills. I hope you like it all, regardless! Thanks to everyone who commented and kudo'd and bookmarked last chapter! :D You're all so amazing!
> 
> And hey, if anyone wants to talk about deleted scenes, backstory headcanons, or just Sterek or Teen Wolf in general, come [visit me!](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/)

\--------------------1---------------------

 

Even after twelve years away, knowing an Alpha is invading his Pack’s territory is enough to make Derek’s skin crawl. The Sheriff’s Department has no idea what’s been laid at their feet. He watches them from a safe distance as they skitter about their “crime scene” as if this is one of their mundane little serial killings. Watches _Stilinski_ skitter about. The man is oblivious to the fact that this is a declaration for _him_. A challenge to the opposing Alpha: killing a local hunter, proving which one of them can protect the territory they both want - or what the Alpha werewolf thinks they both want. Stilinski has no clue.

But Derek does.

He doubles back to his car, avoiding police notice. His mind stays with the cordoned off crime scene, though, even as he makes the drive back across town.

The Alpha is making their move on Hale territory. That much is clear. There’s no subtlety in the Alpha’s actions at all - the sheer violence of the kill is proof that the Alpha’s gone feral, driven by instinct. That means that Stilinski is now the Alpha’s primary target, as an Alpha competing for territory. Stiles Stilinski is in danger. Hunters might manage to save the town before the Alpha can cause irreparable damage to it, but Stilinski has no chance. Not unless Derek steps up.

There’s not much of a decision to be made. Derek knows he’s going to protect Stilinski even before he returns to his loft.

In theory, it’s straight forward. Derek has to track the Alpha and kill them. In practice… Derek may be an excellent tracker, but this proves to be beyond his skills. That night he traces the scent of blood from the crime scene as far as it will take him. It leads him deep into the Preserve, and the scent of the hunter guides him even further still. But tracking the Alpha is… difficult. Even feral, the powers of an Alpha are nothing to be trifled with. The werewolf’s scent fades in and out, and at one point Derek goes in winding circles for almost an hour before he realizes what he’s doing. It becomes quickly apparent that tracking the Alpha when - even feral - it is aware that it will be hunted is a useless endeavour.

Wandering aimlessly through the Preserve, hoping to catch a scent, is just as ineffective the next night. And the night after that.

Derek gives up on that course of action by the third night. His ever-growing list of responsibilities with the apartment building just keeps  growing . Even with Finstock fielding the common tasks, Derek’s phone just doesn’t stop ringing. It seems like every hour of the day, Derek is speaking to Finstock or the other tenants or contractors in hopes of making the building fully  livable again.

Or Stiles Stilinski, which is even more distressing.

_“Have you fixed the giant hole in your wall yet?”_

Derek freezes halfway through his greeting. All it takes is one phrase for his heart to start racing and he hates it. “Stilinski.”

_“Yeah, hi. You fix that hole yet or are you still getting a great view of your neighbor’s apartment? I mean, if you had a neighbor. I’m pretty sure the top floor is abandoned because of how shit it is.”_

“Why are you calling?” he growls. “This is the tenant’s line. Unless you need something fixed, don’t use it.”

 _“Well, my boredom could use some fixing.”_ There’s a smirk in his voice, and Derek can just see it too - the sly quirk of lips that are too pink and too supple. He’s barely known Stilinski for two weeks and he’s already seen it in action more times than his sanity can cope with. Every single time it appears, Stilinski proves just how much of a smug smartass he is and _every single time_ Derek has wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his face in the _worst_ sort of ways--

Derek takes a slow breath, closing his eyes briefly to banish the images _that_ conjures. “Stilinski--”

 _“Stiles! Everyone calls me that, **Derek**.”_ And that… that is definitely flirtatious. Horrendously flirtatious. There’s no mistaking the outright savoring of his name, as if Stilinski… _Stiles_ is tasting the syllables on his tongue. He sincerely regrets the _idiotic_ decision to let Stiles call him by his first name _what was he thinking_...

“Stiles,” he rumbles. “Don’t use this line for personal calls.”

_“Does that mean you’ll give me your **other number** for--”_

He ends the call, scowling at how _jittery_ he feels just from some stupid (cheesy, _awful_ ) flirting. There’s a tight, fluttering sensation in his chest, like a beast going belly up in contentment and that is not a feeling he should want. It’s, frankly, a little frightening how quick his instincts have jumped from wanting _his Alpha’s_ approval to wanting to _sate_ him. Just forming the thought in his head sends a chill through him, and not an unpleasant one.

But whether or not he _should_ want it doesn’t change the fact that he _does_.

The question of whether he can, at least, is no debate. With everything that’s going wrong around them, with the Alpha resurfacing and this strange _bond_ that’s formed between him and the human… no, acting on that desire is the last thing he needs to do.

Derek glares at the gaping hole in his wall (because Stiles was right - he hasn’t had time to fix it yet). “I control my instincts,” he reminds himself, a mantra from a time gone by. “They don’t control me.”

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

Unfortunately, Derek can’t pretend Stiles doesn’t exist. They live in close quarters. Stiles _keeps_ calling the building’s help line even though Derek _repeatedly_ tells him not to. And the bond calling Derek to him is, in fact, still a thing even when he resists it. But all of that aside, the fact is that there’s a greater possibility of the Alpha finding Stiles than there is of Derek finding the Alpha.

Which leads to, for lack of better word, stalking.

He’s not proud of it.

Especially not when Stiles realizes he’s there half the time. Derek learns a whole new lesson in improvisation when the man abruptly stops in the middle of whatever he’s doing and zeroes in on him without warning. Pretending he isn’t aware that Stiles is there is _extremely_ difficult when his entire body seems to be in tune with everything the man does. Whether Stiles realizes it or not, he’s becoming _aware_ of Derek in ways that can only be attributed to the Pack bond.

Which is why Derek is not surprised in the least when Stiles steps up behind him at the cafe one day and drawls, “So it was cute, if a little bit creepy. But now it’s just disturbing. Why are you following me?”

Derek curls his hands into fists, resisting the urge to flinch. The lie springing to his lips sounds unbelievable even before he says it. It would barely pass as a lie against any human, never mind one that’s his Alpha. He forces his heartbeat and breathing to steady, turning on Stiles with the most sardonic, deadpan gaze he can muster. “For the last time, I’m not following you, Stiles.”

Stiles looks like he believes the lie just as much as Derek does. His lip curls in a sneer, and Derek’s eyes flick down of their own accord, entranced. “See, now, last week I would’ve believed that. Maybe. You know with the whole you looking your scowly, emotionally constipated self whenever you noticed I was there. But this? No. This is intentional, right? So what is it? You tryin’ to find a reason to kick me out? Raise my rent? Or are you just _exceedingly_ creepy? Because, dude, that would actually make me feel better about your face if you had a character flaw like that.”

“What.” He’s been gazing at that pink, sinful mouth for too long, has to mentally double back to process what Stiles has been saying. He shakes his head. “None of those. Seriously, Stiles, what the hell.” But the protest sounds weak and stilted even to his ears. Stiles’ eyes only sharpen, his whole body seems to bristle for the next accusation. The only thing that stops Stiles is his friend (the one Derek had seen with him in the Preserve) striding up to him.

“Hey, dude, is everyone-- oh.” He slows to a stop as he nears them, his eyes darting quickly between the two of them. Derek doesn’t want to know what conclusions he comes to after observing Stiles’ tense posture and narrowed eyes. “What’s going on?”

“...Nothing,” Stiles grits out. The slow drag of his eyes as his attention shifts focus sends Derek’s heart pounding. If Stiles were a real Alpha werewolf, like this _should have been_ , it would be so, so obvious. “Whatcha need, Scotty?”

“I was…” the other man draws out the word, still glancing from Stiles to Derek. “...just wondering if everyone else was here.” The uncertainty in his face is _agonizing_. Derek can vividly see all the ways this can end, none of them pleasant. At best, it will be awkward and Stiles will simply avoid him for the rest of this. (That should be a relief. Keeping Stiles at a distance, keeping them from solidifying the bond as Pack, shouldn’t make his chest feel like it’s been filled with molten iron. It does anyway.) At worst, he’s going to end up in a fight with the both of them - he’s seen fistfights break out over less. Or Stiles will just arrest him for… any number of reasons. He’s so caught up in picturing the various horrible endings to this scenario, that he doesn’t spot the actual reason behind Stiles’ friend’s hesitation for several moments.

It’s the scent that hits him first. Floral and soft, the same scent he’d caught from the man in the Preserve. It’s too strong to be residual. And the less he focuses on the young man’s reaction, the more he notices other details. His hands are twitching, compulsively flitting over his nails, which are painted a soft mint green now that Derek is actually looking. They match his shirt, which is dark blue with a green floral pattern, and fits so tight across his chest that Derek can see a sliver of pale golden skin between it and the high waistline of his shorts.

Oh.

_Oh._

Derek can recognize his expression now, less judgmental and far more _defensive_. Unsure if he should be responding with confidence, dismissal, or just outright bolting to avoid being singled out for being even the smallest bit _different._ Derek knows the caged sensation, even if the cause is different.

And he also knows that his continued silent staring is definitely being taken as threatening. Derek struggles to wipe the neutral expression off his face - he’s been told countless times how intense and grouchy it is - and attempt something that could be taken as accepting.

He must fail, because both men just stare at him strangely.

“Ah,” he clears his throat, and says in greeting: “Derek Hale. We ran into each other in the Preserve.” The words feel like lead on his tongue - heavy, clumsy.

The guarded expression on the man’s face fades just slightly. “Scott McCall. I’m Stiles’ friend. He says you own his building, right?”

Derek nods, but can’t think of anything to say in return.

“He was just leaving,” Stiles says icily. The dismissal is clear.

“What?” Scott’s brows furrow. The two of them glance at each other, seeming to communicate in a silent language that only they can understand. Derek wonders how easy it would be to slink away without them noticing.

In the end, none of them get to make the decision. The bell above the cafe door jingles.

And in walks a Kitsune.

Derek forces his entire body to go still in an effort not to react. Not to take a step back the second the young woman walks into the room. Her aura is unmistakable, covering her in a gently pulsing orange glow. It takes some concentrating to rein in his senses to _see her_ past the aura. She’s short and slender and - as she trips over threshold - clumsy. But her dark eyes are guileless and sparkling with a light that Derek cannot fathom in one person alone. She straightens her gauzy blouse, fluffing the hem under her jacket as she turns.

Her eyes find Scott and Stiles first, beaming at the sight of them. And then her eyes land on Derek, and he loses sight of her as the aura _blooms_ out from her without restraint. The fox-headed aura gazes intently at him, ears flicking this way and that. And after a moment’s hesitation, she bounds straight for him. His senses coil in expectation of an attack. But instead, she skids to a halt in front of him. It takes all his restraint to keep his eyes level with hers, rather than the fox aura.

“Oh my gosh, you’re… you’re Derek Hale!” she gushes. When he doesn’t answer, she takes a sharp breath. “I’m Kira. Kira Yukimura? You probably don’t remember me. I mean, it was forever ago and I only visited like… a couple of times? You might remember my mom, though! She and your mother would meet every few years back when I was a little girl.”

Derek can count the number of Kitsune he’s met on one hand, which makes remembering the small, rambunctious girl that would try her best to make friends with Cora easier. “You’re Noshiko’s daughter,” he says, and has to squint when her aura’s light nearly blinds him.

“Yes! I- oh. Um. Right. Yes.” The aura retracts, revealing the Kira’s apologetic smile. Her hands flutter, as if she isn’t sure what to do with them. “It’s good to meet you again! The last time we saw you was at the um… at the memorial service. And Mom came to pay respects to your sister-- you… you probably didn’t want to have that brought up again. I’m sorry.”

“It’s…” Derek falters over the urge to placate her. Saying “it’s alright” is a lie he grew sick of telling years ago. “Thank you.”

She nods, but looks uncomfortable when Derek doesn’t offer anything else. Instead she turns towards Scott and Stiles. “You didn’t tell me your landlord was _Derek Hale!_ ”

“You never told me _you knew him_ ,” Stiles exclaims. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Mom’s always been a big part of the Beacon Hills community, along with the Hales and Doctor Deaton and Miss Morrell and all of them.”

“Oh, _excuse me_ for not knowing the juicy Beacon Hills high society gossip. Maybe you should have said something to Jackson and Lydia.”

“Said what to Jackson and Lydia?” There’s three more people approaching, and it is officially making Derek uncomfortable. But inching out of the way of the newcomers only puts him closer to Stiles. His entire right side prickles, acutely aware of their proximity. His eyes dart for the exit, wondering how quickly he could reach it. Unfortunately, the three newcomers are blocking his path. The one who had spoken is a short, slender redhead with calculating eyes. At her shoulders are a moody, athletic blond and a dark-haired man with soulful eyes that…

Well, there’s no mistaking the look he’s giving Derek.

“That if Kira wanted to learn all the dirt on our top tier hierarchy, she should’ve come to you guys.”

The redhead flips a sleek curl over her shoulder, lips pursing. “He’s right.” She juts her chin in Derek’s direction. “Who’s this?”

It’s Scott who does the introductions, after a beat of silence where neither Derek nor Stiles moves to. “This is Derek Hale. We ran into him in the Preserve a couple weeks ago. Derek, this is Lydia, Jackson, and--”

“Danny,” says the final of the three, his smile just this side of smoldering without being predatory. He offers his hand to shake. “Nice to meet you.” And despite the keen interest in his eyes, his words are said without intent. It’s certainly not like most of the casual flirting Derek’s encountered, where he feels more like a piece of meat than a person.

It’s nice, actually.

Derek finds himself reaching out to shake his hand. “You too.” Beside him, he can perfectly hear Stiles’ incredulous exhale.

Danny grins at him. “You’ve been away for a long time, right? Where’d you end up settling after getting out? LA? You look like you’d do well there.”

“New York, actually.”

“Even better. You probably had companies lining up to ask you to model for them.” He’s not a stranger to comments on his looks at this point. But it’s the first time in a long while that Derek is flattered by a stranger’s compliments. It’s not even the words as it is the genuine interest. “So what brings you back? Can’t imagine it would be for pleasure. New York is like a different world away from this place.”

The lie comes easy to his lips. “Sorting out family assets. They haven’t been doing well out here.” Danny doesn’t seem too bothered when he doesn’t offer anything else for conversation.

Kira, however, does. “It’s bad luck you came back now, with those murders starting up again. Stiles is sure it’s the same guy. Isn’t that scary?” She leans closer to him with an intense spark in her eyes, it’s not quite suspicion, but it’s knowing and not subtle in the _least._

“Yeah, I guess,” he strains to answer.

“I wasn’t here the last time it happened,” she continues. “I heard it was really bad. I hope it doesn’t happen again, you know?”

 _‘I don’t know anything about what’s going on!’_ he wants to tell her - tries to convey that to her as best he can without words. But it only makes her shuffle closer. His hackles rise, and the words that leave his mouth are bitingly cold. “The last time I was here was because my sister and my uncle were his victims.”

The Kitsune startles as if struck. “I…” she falters, eyes mournful, “I didn’t…”

“If you’ll excuse me,” he mumbles. And then, as he’s backing away from them. “It was… nice meeting all of you.” The words feel like ash in his mouth. He flees, _like the coward he is_ , not caring about the coffee anymore.

 \--------------------3---------------------

 

Stiles’ fists clench hard enough to sting as Derek nearly _runs_ from them. His heart is like a leaden ball in his chest. His ribs feel three sizes too small and there’s _no reason for it_. He forces himself to breathe deep and slow, forcing them to remain steady. In four, hold seven, out eight. Subtle, quiet, don’t call attention to the fact that _he_ feels anxious when Derek Hale is the one who all but sprinted out of the cafe.

“I didn’t mean to--” Kira is keening in mortification. “I hope he’s not… He didn’t even get his order.”

There’s a travel cup sitting on the counter a few feet from them, “Derek” neatly printed on the side.

Stiles sets his jaw, forcing back a sigh. He knows exactly what he’s going to end up doing.

Damnit.

\--------------------4---------------------

 

Derek doesn’t quite remember how he makes it back to his apartment. His thoughts go in circles, replaying Stiles’ accusations, Kira’s quiet suspicions, the Alpha, _Laura, his family_ over and over. His feet move on autopilot, and he only becomes aware of it when his door clicks shut behind him. He’s not sure how long he stands in the center of his loft, willing his skin to stop crawling.

Footsteps traipsing up the stairs to the fifth floor are what draw him out of his head. His senses go immediately on high alert. He’s the only occupant of the top floor. There shouldn’t be anyone up here. Derek’s mind is quick to jump to the worst conclusions - the Alpha. Hunters. Even a rogue Omega that for some reason decides to pick a fight with him.

But no, it’s none of those things. The scent of sweet woodsmoke and earth pervades him just as his claws are unsheathing.

It’s Stiles.

That’s not a comfort.

Derek remains frozen. His mind conjures scenarios of accusation and threats, a continuation of the scene from the cafe. He expects Stiles to start pounding on his door, demanding he explain himself. But the footsteps slow to a stop in front of his door, the heartbeat on the other side quick, nervous. He hears the rustle of clothing, the quiet click of something against the concrete floor of the hall. And then the footsteps recede back the way they came.

Derek doesn’t move for a long moment, barely even dares to breathe, not until he can hear Stiles shoving open his own door a floor below. And then he creeps gently to the door, as if afraid that somehow Stiles is going to hear him with his meager human senses.

On his doorstep is a travel mug from the cafe on Maybrook, his name written on the side. When he kneels down to pick it up, it’s still warm. He cradles it in his hands as he rights himself, letting the heat seep into his bones. It smells like hazelnut, chocolate, coffee, and _Stiles_. The combination has a satisfied purr blooming in his chest unbidden. He takes a sip.

It’s perfect.

Derek retreats back into the apartment, and curls up on the lumpy sofa with his coffee and his laptop, and stays there until he feels settled again. For hours he lets a queue of Netflix documentaries drone in the background, providing a cover for the unending buzz of his thoughts. He checks his phone for the ongoings of New York - checks for news and what his coworkers and acquaintances are up to, feeling homesick. The worst blow of them all is a message from Riccardo, who’s asking him to come to one of his “family” parties.

Ten minutes after Derek sends his excuses, he gets a slightly blurry picture of Riccardo and the others smiling back at him.

 _Wish you were here!_ it reads.

 _‘Me too,’_ he thinks.

As if his threatening descent back into melancholy can be heard across the country, his phone starts screaming Nicki Minaj at him.

_Awww Ric is having a party! :( I wanna go. You should send me pics._

_Can’t, early shift tomorrow._

He pauses awkwardly at the lie, and belated sends:

_:(_

_What?! NO! I’m the one that’s supposed to be stuck at work.  
_ _You’re the one who needs to be having  a life and rubbing it in my face._

_Since when have I ever done that?_

_All the time. You’re an asshole like that, Der-bear._

Derek scoffs. If that’s how Ceri wants to play, then fine.

 _Okay, have it your way.  
_ _A cute guy flirted with me at the coffee shop._

He gives a pause for effect before pressing send. It works perfectly, because there’s barely a moment’s pause before the texts start pouring in. Luckily, Derek has the forethought to turn his ringer off before the inevitable rapid-fire response.

 _WHAT_  
_OMG_  
_TELL ME EVERYTHING_  
_HOW CUTE ARE WE TALKING? Like “I’ve got a dark corner and a sexy idea” cute or “you are so adorable please talk to me more cute”?_  
_Did you flirt back?_  
_Of course you didn’t you’re a potato when people flirt with you._  
_Are you going to meet him somewhere?  
_ _DEREK TELL ME EVERYTHING._

_Are you done?_

_YES?_

_He was sweet. Good-looking. Asked if I modelled._  
_But not in a creepy way. Mostly he just looked interested and talked to me like I was a person.  
_ _It was nice._

_Awwww what’s his name?_

_Danny._

_You get his number?_

_No._ _Wasn’t feeling it._ _Not really my type either. Cute, though._

If he were the type to date, Derek considers, he might have asked Danny to dinner. _If_ he were the type to date, and he didn’t have this catastrophe waiting to burst loose over his head. Maybe.

_And what IS your type?_

At that, Derek can’t resist rolling his eyes.

_You know what my type is, idiot._

_Haven’t got a clue~_

_Apparently it’s smart-mouthed little shits who live to annoy me._

_Oh, you say the sweetest things!_

_Who said I was talking about you?_

_And who else would it be?_

Who else, indeed? Derek sighs and sinks back into the lumpy sofa. While his preferences on a person’s looks has always been varied, a sharp, devious mind has been the one constant in everyone Derek has ever been attracted to. Stiles Stilinski, obviously, is no exception to the rule.

His phone buzzes again as he’s taking a drink, which he nearly chokes on as soon as the message comes up. Ceri stares up at him from his phone, eyes soft and full of intent, pouty mouth curved up in a way that has heat flooding through him. They’re lying on their side in the picture, arm outstretched over rumpled sheets. Ceri’s bare from the chest up, but Derek doesn’t have the slightest doubt that they’re naked because it’s _Ceri._ And Ceri is a shameless _brat._

 _Tell me more about how insufferable I am,_ the picture is captioned.

Derek’s laughter comes out breathy.

_You’re the worst. The MOST insufferable, insatiable, incorrigible person on the planet._

_Oooh, talk dirty to me~,_ the next message reads, attached to an even more _suggestive_ photo. Ceri has rolled onto their back, hair tumbling back onto the bed in inky waves. Their eyes are barely open, glimmering hotly, and their lips bitten red. Their free arm is down out of frame, but there is _no mistaking_ what’s happening. It’s absurd and it’s enticing and Derek can _so easily_ imagine Ceri squirming on the bed with their hand working between their legs. He swallows, mouth dry, and waits with anxious excitement for the next response.

When it does arrive, however, the “magic” is broken. It’s a series of photos, all of them horribly blurry and all of them featuring a pale blob across Ceri’s face.

 _ABORT. ABORT MISSION._  
_BABY, NO.  
_ _THIS IS DADDY’S ALONE TIME STOPPIT_

Derek shakes helplessly and covers his mouth to keep the laughter in.

_You hurt?_

_Only my pride. ;_;_

_What pride?_

_See, this is why you’re a jerk._

_You like it._

_I’ll make it up to you._

_:D PICS?_

Derek eyes the mattress across the room critically. If he can frame them right, he’s mostly certain he can keep Ceri from noticing he’s not in their apartment. He licks his lips, bounding up and towards the bed.

_Yeah. Any requests?_

 

\--------------------5---------------------

 

_He needs another._

_So tired of being hollow._

_The haze draws back just enough. Just barely enough. It’s another chance._

_The wind whipping through his fur. The crunch of leaves beneath his pounding paws. The cool night soothing the heat of exertion, of fever mad **want.**_

_Yes._

_Yes. This one will do._

_There’s screams and struggling, a bird-like heartbeat drowning out everything else. Wet flesh rended between fangs and the scrape of bone. No, no, gently. He must be gentle._

_The screaming cuts off sharply._

_And after a few minutes later, the heartbeat follows suit._

_Another failure. Still alone._

_A mournful howl rips through the night._

\--------------------6---------------------

Derek knows better than to even _think_ the phrase “at least it can’t get any worse.” Life has always proven him wrong. And yet, without jinxing himself, the week goes from bad to _disaster_ in the span of an evening.

He’s just come off his nightly patrol around the town - a habit he’s picked up since his attempts to track the Alpha have all failed. He doubles back for his car, intent on finding someplace for take-out and heading back to the loft for the rest of the night, and doesn’t think about the black SUV coming up the road until it rolls to a stop at the curb ahead of him. The street he’s on is more abandoned than not, whatever businesses still there locked up tight for the evening. Derek knows it isn’t going to be good even before the doors open.

The scent of gunpowder, wolfsbane, and steel wafting out of the vehicle confirms his worst fears.

Derek has met Chris Argent exactly twice in his life. Once, during the peace talks between his mother and the Argent Matriarch, and another after the fire. He looks much the same now as he had twelve years ago. His hair and beard are far more grey than blond now, and there’s a few more lines around his eyes, but the hard set of his jaw and the cold steel of his eyes are just as foreboding Derek remembers them.

“Derek Hale,” the hunter greets him, striding over with two younger hunters flanking his shoulders.

“Argent,” he replies through gritted teeth. His hands tighten into fists, hidden in the too-long sleeves of his leather jacket.

“Just got back into town,” Argent begins conversationally. His casual tone does nothing to comfort Derek. “ _Business_ brought us in. We still have holdings in Beacon Hills, so we figured we’d stay awhile. Put down some old roots again. Imagine our surprise when our colleagues inform us that _Derek Hale_ has come back at the same time. Here on business as well, Derek?”

“Spare me the false subtleties,” Derek growls. “You going to ask a question or are you going to ask me how my family is next? Oh wait, you can’t, _because of what you did._ ”

Argent scoffs at him, sauntering forward a step, getting into Derek’s space just enough for his hackles to rise. “That again? There was no proof of any Argent or our people involved in that fire. It was a tragedy, Hale, I will give you that. But not murder. Now.” Any pretense of civility drops from his face. “Where is the Alpha?”

Derek fights back a sneer. “No idea.”

“Really. Your sister, your _Alpha_ , has been dead for six years and here you are alone and still with your mind intact? You expect me to believe that?”

He loses the battle, baring his teeth and snarling at the hunter with just a touch of the wolf in his voice. The men on either side of Argent tense, hands twitching to the guns Derek can smell under their jackets. Derek shifts his weight, ready to leap.

“Don’t do this, Derek,” Argent coaxes, as if he isn’t the one doing the threatening here. “We just want you to answer the question.”

“Tell your lapdogs to back. _Off_.”

“You’re one to talk about lapdogs,” mutters the hunter to Argent’s right.

Derek’s growl picks up in volume.

“Vela, knock it off,” Argent reprimands. He signals, and the hunters step further apart, fanning out around him. They’re trying to herd him into a corner, or get him to snap. Give themselves an excuse to kill him. Derek knows exactly how they work. “Answer the question, Derek. And everyone goes home happy.”

Except there’s no scenario in which this ends _happily_ for Derek, and he knows it all too well.

 \--------------------7---------------------

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Stiles hisses, jumping in place. He shakes his hands out, trying to rid his limbs of the full-body jitters that have overtaken them. Beside him, Scott only smiles. He’s used to Stiles’ particular cocktail of anxiety and ADHD fueled restlessness. Which would be fine, if that’s what this was. But this…

Stiles hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Not since the raw, hysterical months after his mother’s death, when his father even leaving the house would result in a panic attack.

It’s _not_ a panic attack, thankfully. But the dread sitting like a cold stone in his belly is still the same. He can’t shake the feeling that something is horribly wrong even though _nothing is._ He can’t find the words to explain it to Scott. Every time he tries, the words lodge in his throat, choked by anxious second-guessing.

“You okay?” Scott speaks up after a few minutes, just as Stiles is starting to tally up his Adderall doses over the last few days.

“Yeah, yeah… no. I just…” He shakes himself one more time, trying to free himself of the sensation. “Something’s wrong.”

“Wrong?” Scott parrots. But he’s more concerned now, stepping into Stiles’ line of sight and distracting him from glancing down the alleyways.

“Yeah. I can’t figure out… but it just feels wrong.” His voice drops to a fevered whisper.  “Why does it feel wrong? Why does…”

“Do you want to call Dad? Or Mom? She’s off tonight and was going to take him lunch. She can check in.”

Bless Scotty. Bless him and his adorable pastel cotton socks, but that’s not what this is. He shakes his head frantically. “It’s not Dad. At least… At least I hope it’s not Dad. I don’t _know_ , Scott. It just feels wrong-- _shit!_ ” And just like that the dread ramps up into skin-crawling terror. His gaze latches onto the alley near them, staring down it and Stiles isn’t sure if his mind considers it his salvation or his doom, but his feet start moving towards it anyway.

“Stiles!” Scott calls, because Stiles is already building up to a slow jog in just those few seconds. “Where are you going?!”

“Away from here,” Stiles gasps over his shoulder. “Gotta bad feeling.” It sounds ludicrous even as he says it, like the poster child of paranoia. But Scott runs to catch up with him anyway, even as Stiles takes a turn out of the alley and down another one. Even as his breathing goes ragged and he has to pause to bring his inhaler to his mouth. Hearing him take a deep breath of the medicine and hold it makes Stiles slow his pace, wincing apologetically.

Now that they’re on another street, the urge to run has ebbed enough that Stiles can think again. He waits for Scott to catch his breath, rubbing at his arms to soothe the remaining jitters away as best he can.

He hears them before he sees them. It’s impossible not to when the street is deserted of anyone else. Stiles only registers voices at first. His glance up the street turns into a double take. And then a triple.

That is Derek Hale. ( _‘Again!’_ he silently grumbles.)

That is Derek Hale being crowded towards his car by three men.

Derek, who looks pale under the streetlamp, body tense and shoulders hunched - cornered, _afraid_ \--

“HEY!” Stiles bellows. He advances towards them, hands instinctively flitting down to where his service pistol would be. “The hell do you think you’re doing?!”

Two of Derek’s assailants whirl to face him. Stiles catalogues their features in seconds, police training (both lifelong and official) going to work. On the right: Over six feet, sturdy, pale skin, douchebag haircut complete with douchebag goatee he probably thinks is mysterious, dark blond hair, small scar on his temple. On the left: Slightly shorter, most likely 5’7” or 5’8”, lean, dark, close-cropped hair, brown-skinned, a mole on his jaw.

And in the center…

It doesn’t register who Stiles is looking at until he hears Scott let out a quiet “ohh shit” in a tone he only saves for when he knows he’s in trouble. And Stiles can’t blame him.

Because that is _Chris Argent_ , father of Scott’s first love, standing right in front of Derek.

“Scott, Stiles,” he greets, as if they hadn’t caught him threatening someone. There’s nothing else it can be with the way Derek is staring at him, coiled as if Chris is going to strike without warning.

“Mister Argent,” Scott mumbles in return.

“Yeah, yeah, hi. What the hell is going on?” Stiles slips around them, planting himself between Derek and Chris Argent.

“We stopped to see if Mister Hale here needed some help with his car.” Argent’s words come out easy, but Stiles doesn’t buy a word of it. And neither does Scott, who peers at the Camaro parked behind them.

“It looks fine to me.”

“We can see that now. But we didn’t want to take a chance seeing him on the side of the road in this part of town.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles huffs, “are you from some mafia B-movie? Do us all a favor and take your guard dogs and leave.”

“Stiles…” Chris spreads his hands in a placating motion, taking a small step forward. He doesn’t get any further than that, because Stiles has his badge in his hands and is brandishing it with a pointed wave.

“No. How about this? You get back in your car and I won’t arrest you for attempted assault. Unless you can _actually_ come up with a way to explain this that isn’t illegal.”

There’s a moment of tense silence, before Argent caves. “Alright, alright. It doesn’t need to come to that.” The older man jerks his head at his two goons, wordlessly ordering them to retreat towards their black SUV with an almost militant air about them. It sets Stiles’ teeth on edge. “It was nice seeing again, Scott. You too, Stiles.” He nods to them as he retreats, but stops after only going a few paces away. “Derek,” he says, as if it’s an afterthought, “if you’d like to come talk to us and finish our discussion, we’d welcome it.”

“The hell does that mean?” Stiles mutters under his breath. Beside him, Scott shrugs, looking just as perturbed as Stiles feels. He waits until the black SUV pulls away from them; waits until he sees it turn the corner, before turning to Derek. “Derek, what was he talking about? Derek?”

But Derek isn’t paying attention to him. His eyes are still trained on the direction the SUV went, face still drawn and pale.

“Derek?” he tries again.

 

 \--------------------8---------------------

 

They have to get Derek out of here. The entire _situation_ \- from Stiles’ anxiety attack to _Chris Argent_ showing up in Beacon Hills again to them cornering Derek-- all of it’s worrying. But the thought that sticks into Scott’s mind is that _Derek can’t be here right now._

“Stiles,” Scott says uneasily. “We should get out of here.”

“I’m not just leaving him here!” Stiles hisses back.

“I’m not saying that! Just… we need to leave. Who knows if they’re coming back or just… waiting.” Capable or not, _guilty_ or not, Scott doesn’t feel comfortable leaving Derek here if the Argents are pulling tactics like this. He doesn’t put it past them to just be waiting out of sight, for the two of them to leave Derek alone again.

Just saying it out loud makes Scott feel vaguely ill. Mister Argent used to _like_ him, at least under that dangerously protective father act that he effected sometimes. He had always seemed stern but genuinely caring back then. But Scott isn’t a teenager anymore, and he _knows things_ that he never would have dreamed of in high school, and the Argents aren’t just a severe but loving family in his mind anymore.

He can only hope that Allison is here. Allison is _good_. Allison he trusts to do the right thing, not corner people on dark streets at night.

The likelihood that this isn’t over seems to be registering with Stiles finally. He shoots a dubious glance down the road, as if trying to pick out which dark alley Chris might be hiding in, before trying to get Derek’s attention again. “Derek, hey, come on.” But his voice is growing softer now as he calls out to him, and his hands over just over the man’s arm. Scott would have just shaken him and ushered him away by this point.

“Stiles, let's go,” he urges.

His insistent call is what snaps Derek out of whatever headspace he’d fallen into. The man gives a start, actually backpedalling a step away from them as if he wasn’t aware how close Stiles had come to him.

“Hey, man,” Stiles coaxes, “you okay?”

“Fine,” is all the response they get.

Stiles bristles. “Bullshit. That was not fine. What the hell did he want?”

If anything, this only makes Derek close off more. His shoulders hunch defensively, his eyes flicking towards his car. “I don’t know.”

“Really? Because he seemed pretty clear that you were _discussing_ something, Derek. Which would be _what_ exactly?”

Scott can see the instant that Stiles pushes too far. Derek’s posture goes from reluctant to carefully blank. His eyes go steely, jaw clenching. “It’s none of your business, Stiles.”

“It’ll be my business when you press charges against those--”

“I’m not pressing charges.”

Stiles’ mouth pops open, but no sound comes out. That’s not good. Scott can _actually_ see the fight about that Stiles is about to put up. “ _Stiles_ ,” he reminds him. It derails Stiles enough to look at him. Scott flaps his arms at him, gesturing vaguely down the street where Argent is likely to be waiting. Stiles closes his mouth, lips forming a thin, unhappy slash.

“Okay, fine,” he assents, voice crisp as he turns back to Derek. “You can drive us back to our car since we went out of our way to save your ass.”

“Not a chance.”

Scott suppresses an exasperated sigh.

“We’re not letting you go alone, dude. Not after you were just about attacked!”

“I’m fine on my own.”

“I don’t _care_ if you think you are, _you’re not leaving here by yourself._ ” The tone that Stiles uses is alarming  enough - not the one he normally uses when his aggressively concerned moods. It’s too hard-edged, said with too much teeth and grit. But that’s not what startles Scott.

 _Stiles eyes burn red._ A very _particular_ shade of red that Scott has heard about but hadn’t seen until this moment.

It’s not a trick of the light either, because Derek noticeably flinches, his eyes going wide. Scott meets his eyes, and Derek must see the recognition there. He gaze sharpens on Scott. Neither of them know what to say.

“...fine,” Derek grunts at last, as if it’s been forcibly dragged out of him.

Stiles’ eyes are still bright crimson. “Good.” His attention shifts back to Scott, and stops short at the look Scott is currently giving him. “What?” His eyes fade gently back to their normal amber brown.

Scott flounders for an answer. “I…”

Derek is minutely shaking his head over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Nothing? Let’s get out of here. This place is creepy at night.” He doesn’t let Stiles come up with a response, brushing past him and into the Camaro where Derek is holding the door open. He settles into the backseat, forcing his face to remain neutral as the other two climb in after him. They don’t speak to each other, even as Derek pulls the car away from the curb. It takes them hooking the block for Stiles to even mention where they left the Jeep.

“You uh,” Scott tries at last, “you alright, dude?”

Stiles leans around the passenger seat, his expression puckered in confusion. “Yeah, why?” Completely oblivious.

“Well, you were freaking out earlier…” he fumbles to cover.

“Oh. Yeah, that was… I think I need to check my dosage. It’s been fucking with my anxiety. I haven’t had an attack that bad since senior year of college.”

“Yeah… yeah, you should do that. It was scary to see you like that."

Scott slips his phone from his pocket as casually he can manage, waits for Stiles to turn back around, and calmly, _calmly_ texts Kira.

_I THINK STILES IS AN ALPHA WERE????_

_HUH?_

_HIS EYES WENT RED  
_ _LIKE BRIGHT RED_

 _WHAT???!!!!!_  
_he’s not he’s human he CAN’T be  
_ _he was human when he LEFT WHAT???_

 _I DONT KNOW  
_ _I don’t think he knows either_

Scott swallows hard, willing his racing heart to slow. Nervously, he glances up, and finds Derek’s eyes on him in the rear view mirror.

_but i think Derek does_

  

\----------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 6.**

 


	7. A penny for your thoughts but a dollar for your insights (or a fortune for your disaster)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wolf is staring at him.
> 
> “Hey,” Stiles calls, “where have you been?”
> 
> He only lowers his head in answer, those too-blue eyes flaring bright. He stands between the trees, as if he’s waiting for something.
> 
> “Uh…”
> 
> The Wolf takes off into the forest.
> 
> “Hey wait!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! This chapter is a bit longer than the previous ones, because I REALLY wanted to at least get up to this point rather than force it into two chapters. As such, **this chapter is NSFW!** AND it has more Kira in it, and as I'm only a couple episodes into 3B (oops) I don't quite know her character outside of fics or Tumblr. So if anything is drastically off, let me know!
> 
> Thanks to EVERYONE who's offered feedback in the last month. :3 Knowing you guys enjoy it gets me so excited to write! As always, I'm always free to talk on [ my tumblr](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/)! Thanks for reading!

\--------------------1---------------------

_The Wolf is staring at him._

_“Hey,” Stiles calls, “where have you been?”_

_He only lowers his head in answer, those too-blue eyes flaring bright. He stands between the trees, as if he’s waiting for something._

_“Uh…”_

_The Wolf takes off into the forest._

_“Hey wait!” Stiles takes off after it. The forest is all lit up, the moon full and bright overhead, showering everything in pale, cool light. It’s easy to track the black streak of the Wolf through the trees. Stiles follows it around the bend of a hill, past the dark, towering oak trees and into a grove._

_And slows to a halt._

_There’s no Wolf in the clearing. But there’s a **Derek Hale,** sitting on an outcropping of moss-covered stone. He looks down from the stars just as Stiles steps past the line of trees. He doesn’t say a word, only watches. Which is **sort of unnerving** with the amount of bare skin on display._

_“Uh. Hi,” Stiles manages._

_“Hey,” Derek replies quietly. Everything about him is soft and open in this light. Intimate._

_Stiles’ mouth goes dry. “You uh- I… guh.” He gestures out of the grove, where he can hear a stream bubbling in the forest’s silence. “Taking a swim?”_

_“Hm,” is Derek’s eloquent answer. Stiles finds himself pacing closer, and Derek’s eyes track his every motion._ _ “ _ _ I came to see the tree. But it’s not here _ _ ,” Derek says at long last. _

_ “What?” _

_ “ _ _ It’s supposed to be here. Right over there.” _ _ His gaze focuses behind Stiles, into the center of the clearing.  _

_ “Sure? I guess.” There’s a hand in his face. Stiles stumbles back a step, gaze following the offering hand up an unfairly muscled arm and shoulder and into Derek’s face. “Uh.” _

_ “Come up? Sit with me.” _

__His voice leaves him. The only thing Stiles can do is reach for Derek’s hand, let him help him up onto the rock. Being even closer to Derek right now does not help with the_ _awkward jitters settling in his chest._ _ _At all. Stiles does his best not to look, not to **stare.** Even if Derek is completely comfortable in his skin, **Stiles** will go insane if he looks._

_The ensuing silence feels like it’s buzzing beneath his skin. “So… nice night-- oh.”_

_Derek is suddenly very close, leaning into his space and Stiles looks up just in time for Derek to catch his mouth in a kiss. And all Stiles can think about is how **good** it feels, how warm Derek’s lips are on his, how sweetly he sighs into the kiss. His back hits the soft, cool moss as Derek eases him back, his shivers quickly soothed by the heat of Derek’s body against his. The weight and the warmth of him alone makes Stiles gasp, the feel of every line of Derek’s body burning into his. Derek catches his lip between his teeth, tugging just enough to sting and worrying it with his tongue._

_It’s all Stiles can do to dig his fingers into the man’s shoulder blades and hold on as he starts grinding, slow and dirty, against him. Stiles’ shirt is rucked up, exposing him to the night air. It makes Derek’s hands feel even hotter as they trace lines up and down his sides and over his belly._

_“Stiles…” Derek pulls back enough to look at him, and his eyes are so blue. Such a mesmerizing blue--_

Stiles blinks his eyes open, and promptly groans. “C’mon,” he grumbles, “It w’s just gettin’ good.” His apartment is frustratingly silent in answer. He’d much rather be back in that misty little grove of trees with _Derek Hale_ grasping and ardent on top of him, rather than overheated and uncomfortably turned on and alone in his bed, thank you.

He shifts, wincing as his erection strains uncomfortably against his boxers. The dream hadn’t even been the most graphic he’s ever had, but still it has him throbbing and hot all over. Not that he can really blame his libido, because making out with Derek Hale? Definitely worthy of wet dreams. Stiles shuts his eyes with a dreamy little grin, and calls up every detail of the dream he can remember. Particularly the ones that include a lot of warm, naked flesh and Derek’s weight pinning him down. And then he lets the scenario take its course, imagining the feel of his hands, his mouth, his cock. Hot and hard and wanting _him_. His dick cheers that train of thought on, twitching in his boxers. “Mm, there we go,” he murmurs, rolling onto his back and sliding a lazy hand under his waistband.

 

 \--------------------2---------------------

 

The clock on the bedside table reads 3:22 AM when Derek jolts awake, panting. His legs have tangled in the sheets, sticking with the fine sheen of sweat that covers his body. It’s no mystery why he’s shivering even as he gasps for breath. Not when he _aches_ with arousal, and can feel the hot weight of his cock against his stomach. His memories of his dreams are only of clinging hands and devouring lips. Heat and gasped praises, the bite of teeth and soft kisses. Derek presses a hand over the center of his chest, willing his heart to stop racing. He’s still bone-tired from his patrols and dealing with the building’s upkeep. And he has half a mind of just ignoring his dick in favor of sleep.

_“Mm…”_

Derek’s eyes shoot open. “No.”

After a moment of silence, another muffled moan drifts up from the floor below.

“God _damnit_ , Stiles,” he hisses. Derek turns over, grabbing the second pillow and squeezing it over his head to block out the sound.

It does little to stop it.

_“Ffuck… yeah, that’s…”_

Derek can hear the rustle of sheets, imagines Stiles squirming in bed, long limbs splayed and reaching for purchase. He can effortlessly picture what those barely suppressed moans look like, Stiles’ lips puffy and red from biting them.

The next sound is accompanied by a wave of echoed lust, and with a start Derek realizes he’s grinding his hips into the bed for relief. He curses and squirms, resisting the urge to rut. He tries to block out his senses - he _shouldn’t_ be listening to this. It’s wrong to listen to this. It’s against everything Derek has ever been taught about his senses and respecting privacy. But the echo of his Alpha’s pleasure is intertwined with a _call_ , like a siren beckoning him downstairs, and that leaves _no mystery_ to who Stiles is thinking about while fucking himself.

Stiles has no idea. Absolutely _no idea_ what he’s doing.

“Worst Alpha _ever_ ,” Derek groans through clenched teeth. He chokes on a rough keen as the sensation swells, as do the noises coming from the apartment below. His claws dig into the fabric, startling him with how far his control has gone. Reigning in the shift leaves him shaking. Unwilling to resist. He shoves a hand under his body just as Stiles’ whimpers go taut and breathy. “ _Fuck_ ,” he sighs. He throws the pillow across the room in frustration. His fingers around his cock isn’t the relief he wants. It only makes the ache _burn_ in his belly. He wraps his fingers tight, hips jerking, fucking into his dry fist so hard it’s uncomfortable, his fingers catching on the barest swell of his knot.

 _Fuck._ The realization has him grinding it into the tight circle of his fingers. Stiles has reduced him to this without even being in the room.

_“De--”_

The tiniest _hint_ of his name on Stiles' lips has him biting his hand to keep from _howling_. He tastes blood. And _ruts_ until he knots his fist like a fucking _teenager._

Derek slumps against the bed, directly into the wet spot, chest and throat aching as he sucks in breath after breath. Stretching his senses past the sound of his pounding heart, he’s met with the sounds of an equally breathless Stiles in the apartment below.

Derek’s growl comes out slurred. “M’gonna kill’im.”

\--------------------3---------------------

“Stiles… Stiles!”

“Mm-what?” Stiles jumps back in his chair, heels skidding across the floor to avoid tipping over. Upon seeing the woman beside his desk, he grins. “Oh. Hey, Chief Deputy. You’re looking especially commanding today.”

Tara Graeme, his father’s second-in-command, is less than impressed by his decadently sweet tone. “Uh-huh. Honey, that hasn’t worked with me since before you had braces.”

“You love me,” Stiles counters without remorse. “You love me _so_ much, Tara. Don’t try to hide it. Think of all those nights you helped me with my math homework and took me to In-N-Out when Dad was tied up in cases and spilled the beans whenever Dad broke his diet…”

“Alright, alright,” she shakes her head quickly to keep him from continuing.

“So does that mean you’re gonna tell me what’s in that file?” he wheedles, eyes zeroing in on the notable folder she’s carrying with her. When she doesn’t answer right away, his fingers inch towards it. “Would it just so happen to be the autopsy report on Alpha victim number two…?” The file is whipped defensively out of his reach. “Taraaaaa,” he whines, “come on, it’s my case!”

“It’s your father’s case. _He_ is lead on this, Stiles. He just knows better than to fight you on something you’ll do anyway.”

“So give me the file, then!”

The _look_ Tara gives him has him rethinking the command.

“ _Please_ give me the file, then?”

The Chief Deputy scrutinizes him for way longer than necessary, her mouth pinched into a flat line. “I will give this to you,” she says slowly, “on the _express condition_ that you check in with me every week. And if I see you neglecting your health-- _even a little!_ ” Her voice rises as he opens his mouth to argue. “I’m going directly to your father and recommending you be taken off the case.”

“You’re all in _cahoots_ ,” Stiles grumbles, all but snatching the file from her.

“The Sheriff has Melissa to look after his health now. The station has to find a new pet project. Oh, and Stiles? You have a visitor asking for you.” Tara waves a hand past him as she turns away. Stiles follows the gesture, to where his “visitor” has started walking over from the station’s foyer.

It’s Allison Argent, no mistaking it.

His mouth goes slack as she approaches. In looks, she hasn’t changed much. Her hair is shorter, at most. But her _presence_ is nothing like the bright, witty girl he remembered from high school. She strides forward with a _power_ around her. Her expression might be neutral, with a soft curve to her lips, but it’s sharp and focused on him in a way that leaves Stiles enraptured.

“A-Allison!” his voice cracks on the last syllable. He clears his throat quickly. “Allison, hi. It’s been a long time.”

The intense look of pinpoint focus on her face eases, and the girl Stiles remembers is there again. The breath he’s been holding releases. “Hi Stiles,” she greets, giving him a dimpled smile. “How’ve you been?”

“Good! I uh... “ he gestures at his uniform, summing up six years in a single wave of his hand. “Are you surprised? Not many people around here are, I guess.”

“No, not really. You were always so involved anyway. At least now you’re getting paid for it.”

“I think you underestimate the wages here.” He sighs gustily as he tips back in his chair. “My services are worth so much more than this town can provide.” Allison laughs softly at his dramatics, which, score, he’s actually still mildly amusing to her. “So what about you?”

“Family business,” she says with a quiet sigh. “Pretty much in the same boat as you. Been involved since before I could walk, but now I’m…”

“Getting treated like the rookie because it was never ‘official’?” he finishes for her.

They share a look of pure empathy. “Yeah,” she concurs, “something like that.”

“Well, I’m sure the private weapons contracting business pays more than what I’ve got, at least.”

“And cooler toys.”

“Quiet, you,” he hisses playfully at her. “Stop flaunting that you get all the cool shit.” The banter comes easily between them, something that makes his heart ache to think about. Scott hadn’t been the only one hurt by Allison’s sudden departure. They’d all been friends, and while Stiles had never gotten the chance (or let himself have the chance) to be close to her, there’d always been an easy interaction with them. She’d _fit_ , essentially. No matter how jealous teenage Stiles had been of her taking Scott’s time, having her gone left a distinctly Allison-shaped hole in all of their lives.

“How, um…” she brings her hand up as if to nervously play with her hair, and thinks better of it. “How’s Scott?”

Stiles glances at the monitor on his desk. “Wow, it took you four minutes and eleven seconds to ask about Scott. That’s about three minutes longer than I expected.”

Allison genuinely looks like she’s considering what to throw at him.

“He’s good. Real good. He’s…” _Not exactly the same person you dated. Learned a lot about himself and how to be comfortable in his own skin. Misses you a lot, even though he’s figured out how to move on. In love with someone else now._ “He’s still working with Doctor Deaton. Saving up for vet school right now. But he graduated from UC Davis Magna Cum Laude and everything!” He’s bragging. But Scott worked _so hard_ for that damned degree and is working just as hard to get into veterinary school now. He deserves being bragged about.

“Really?” Allison asks, her voice soft.

“Yeah. He’s done good, o-- Scotty.” He chokes on the _our Scotty_ , which is something that seems so natural to say to her, something he _used to_ say to her before she left them all. By the flinch in her expression, she’s caught his slip. “So what brings you back?"

“Business,” she answers quickly, just as ready as he is to move past the emotional landmine that was her departure. “We’re doing some work with a company in Redding, and we still have the old house, so Dad elected to move here instead.”

“Yeah, I…” he hesitates, a thought occurring to him. Stiles looks at her more closely now. “I ran into him the other night,” he finishes slowly.

Discomfort flits across her expression, and his dread is confirmed.

“Why’d you come here, Allison?” Stiles asks flatly.

She takes a moment to answer, hands smoothing her skirt down over her leggings almost nervously, before coming up to toy with the coat-of-arms style pendant hanging around her neck. “I wanted to ask you what your connection was with Derek Hale.”

Disappointment is an understatement for the feeling that washes over him. “ _You can’t be serious._ ”

The firm set of Allison’s jaw says she very much is. “I just wanted to warn you. He’s… bad news, Stiles.”

“Bad news,” Stiles scoffs.

“He _is._ He and his sister always hated our family and…” she leans forward, her voice lowering, “and we think he might have something to do with my aunt’s death.”

Stiles is halfway to a protest when her words register. His jaws snaps shut with a click. “... _What?_ ”

“We don’t have any proof. But we know that he’s involved, Stiles. I don’t know how you know him, but you have to be careful.”

His jaw works, chewing over the words he wants to say. The worst of it is that he can’t deny her claims with complete certainty. And while the thought is sobering, he still can’t ignore what he’s seen with his own eyes. “If there’s any evidence of Derek being involved in the murders--” he states, biting around the words, “-- _if_ that is true, then we’ll bring him in like we would any suspect. But you know what I _have seen_ , Allison? I’ve seen your father and two other men corner Derek on a dark street and _threaten him_. That is attempted assault, and is still a misdemeanor. And if I catch him pulling that shit again, I _will_ arrest him. I’ve got a badge now. I can do that.”

After a moment’s scrutiny, Allison stands, her mouth drawn into a resigned frown. “Alright. I’ll tell him. Just be careful, okay Stiles?”

“Same to you.” The words taste bitter on his tongue. He watches as she walks away from him. Her stride doesn’t hitch a single step. She doesn’t look back, either.

Yeah, definitely bitter.

 _Allison’s back,_ he texts Scott later.

_what? no way!_

_Yeah, she came over to warn me away from Derek.  
_ _Looks like she’s on her father’s side on this._

_What? no. :( Allison wouldn’t. she’s a good person. she wouldn’t be okay with that!_

_Tell that to her, Scotty._

_aw man. :(_

_Me too, buddy._

__

\--------------------4---------------------

Derek makes it a total of five days after The Dream without seeing Stiles. And it’s not, surprisingly enough,  because Derek has given up on following the man. It’s because Stiles doesn’t seem to ever leave his apartment. Derek can hear him pacing the floors at all hours of the night, leave for his shift in the morning, return in the evening, and then repeat the process all over again. He isn’t even sure that Stiles has  _ slept  _ in five days. The pacing stops every now and again, but is never gone for more than an hour or so.

Exhaustion settles into his bones, until Derek isn’t sure if it belongs to him or to Stiles. Sleep, when he can get it, is fleeting. He wants to blame Stiles for that too, but it’s his own worries that keep him up at night. The Alpha remains elusive, and with each passing day, that increasingly worries him. A feral Alpha is unpredictable at best. Only two bodies have been found so far, and Derek can’t help but wonder if that’s because the Alpha is tracking a very specific prey.

He wonders how long it will be before Stiles is caught alone and unaware.

Which brings him to now.

He’s standing on the fire escape as the Wolf, peering through Stiles’ window.  The man has reacted positively to Derek in this form before . If there’s anything he can learn from Stiles about the Alpha - even the smallest detail that would mean nothing to a human - it’s easiest like this.

And besides that… like this, Derek can be near without worrying about human convention. Derek is the Wolf at his core. And sometimes having to reconcile the Wolf with all of these human sensibilities can be _tiring_. Like this, Derek doesn’t need a reason to be with Stiles. And Stiles won’t ask those questions.

Stiles doesn’t even think he’s real.

He taps at the window with his claws, assured that this is going to be much the same as the first time when it takes four attempts to get Stiles to notice him. He looks, if possible, even more dead on his feet than the last time. His gait is unsteady as he comes to open the window for Derek, his eyes painfully bloodshot. “What?” he mumbles. “You don’t even have the decency to appear in the room this time? I gotta let my own delusions in now too?” Derek huffs, squeezing past Stiles’ arms and into the apartment. He shakes the cool night air off him as Stiles shrugs. “Well, I needed a sounding board anyway. C’m’in, buddy.” His hand smoothes a line down Derek’s back, nimble fingers carding through his fur.

Derek allows himself to lean into it. Just for a few seconds.

They end up almost exactly where they left off, with Stiles sprawled on the couch with his copious notes and Derek sitting at his feet. Except this time Derek is paying closer attention to the files on the coffee table and the images on the laptop screen. There’s four folders on the table now, photographs of crime scenes fanned out around three of them.

There’s been a third murder, as bloody as the others.

“I don’t get it,” Stiles grumbles behind him, leaning almost over top of his head to get at the evidence reports. It places his heartbeat directly in Derek’s ear, strong and slightly too fast. Above him, Stiles smells of coffee, anxiety, and sweat in addition to his own scent. His ears flick against Stiles’s shirt, and he butts his head up, nudging against the underside of his chin. There’s a nearly silent rumble of laughter in response, even as Stiles continues his monologue. “I really just… none of them are connected. Not by appearance or age or sex or race or even by _location_. Victim one: a white male in his thirties, hunter, out in the Preserve. Victim two: latina, early twenties, jogging on one of the trails close to town as far as we can tell. Victim three: black male in his late twenties and we have _no idea_ where he was when he was attacked. According to his friends and family he doesn’t go out in into the Preserve like the others do. He was _found_ out in the old industrial sector, but probably dumped there.

“I can’t get my head around how he chooses his victims at all. Or even how he murders them. Does he just have a giant ass dog he’s trained to attack people? Or some kind of weapon made out of a canine jaw bone or claws…? That’s happened before. In _really weird, rare cases_ , but it’s been known to happen with serial killers. Which apparently this guy is. Damnit, I was so sure he was a spree killer.” Stiles slumps back onto the sofa with a rough sigh, and Derek watches him as he digs the heels of his palms into his eyes in frustration. “I’m supposed to be training for this. I should _know_ this. I can’t even give my dad a probable suspect, how in the hell am I supposed to be a criminal psychologist?”

 _‘It’s not something you’d understand,’_ Derek wants to tell him. _‘None of this is.’_

The answer’s right in front of him, not that the deputy would ever see it. The murders are gradually becoming less frenzied. The bites more _precise_. The first victim was all but ripped apart, but the second is only missing an arm from where she was dragged. The third victim, like the others, has multiple bite wounds. But his are the cleanest of all of them, deliberate and most on meatier portions of the body where they wouldn’t be fatal.

The Alpha is trying to create a Beta.

The knowledge sits heavy in Derek’s belly. He’s not sure which is worse: a feral, uncontrollable Alpha or one that’s actively growing their Pack. A whine gets caught in his throat, and he presses back against Stiles’ legs. Listening to Stiles talk through his thoughts is an easy distraction from the worries circling round and round his head. He lets Stiles’ voice wash over him, lets the words fade out until it’s just the cadence of his voice, the rapid staccato of consonants and the drawn out hiss as thoughts strike him mid-sentence. His voice is oddly enthralling. It always sounded higher-pitched, but now that Derek is concentrating his senses on it, he can hear the clear buzz in the lowest register of Stiles’ voice. The harmony between tone and rumble is mesmerizing to listen to, and Derek lets the minutes tick by.

The hand rhythmically stroking between his ears _might_ be a part of that.

It’s not until much later that his awareness tunes back in, not gently, but with a crash in the form of the words: “Hale house fire.”

Stiles has opened the fourth and last file on his desk, spreading picture after picture of _the house_ onto the table. It’s not the broken down wreck of a building that Derek is familiar with, but the ones taken directly after the fire was declared safe, when the ashes were still fresh and the building still hot and his family still newly burned. One of the pictures Stiles is holding is only of a black charr across the floor under some fallen beams and Derek doesn’t have to look closely to know that _stain_ used to be one of his family--

He feels sick, and turns his face into Stiles’ knee with a pathetic whimper. The petting intensifies, but absently, as if Stiles isn’t aware that he’s reacting at all. “I was so sure,” he mumbles. “I was so sure it had something to do with this. Myers was the insurance investigator after the fire. Cunningham was a builder who worked on the Hale house. And then there were the Hales. I was fucking _positive_ it was all connected to the Hales. But these recent victims… they don’t follow the theory. Two of them didn’t even _live_ in Beacon Hills at the time of the first set of murders!”

Stiles rubs a hand over his face, eyes blinking sluggishly. “Maybe… yeah, maybe. I mean he is shady. Y’know?” The question is directed at Derek, as if Derek not only followed the strange intuitive leap but was expected to answer back.

The man, at least, doesn’t seem too dissuaded by his his silence. “No seriously. He’s _shady_. And _pretty_.”

_‘Wait, what.’_

“He’s so fucking pretty,” Stiles continues. “Unfairly pretty. Too pretty to really exist. Too pretty and too shady. You think I could arrest him for being too shady and too pretty for the common man to handle?”

Stiles has officially lost him now. Not that he seems to care. Derek watches as he stares into the distance, eyes shiny with exhaustion and… whatever or whoever it is he’s imagining.

“Yeah, could be worth it just to get him into my cruiser. ‘Derek Hale, you and your adorable bunny teeth are under arrest.’ Yeah. What?” He interrupts himself in response to Derek’s whine of _utter mortification_. “He does have adorable bunny teeth. And unbelievable eyes. I mean _what color are they even?_ His license says green, I looked it up. But they’re not, I swear they’re not, because I’ve seen them look blue and gold and gray depending on like… what he’s wearing or the fucking _weather_ I don’t know. I just… I cannot _fathom_ that man, Christ.”

Derek has an increasing urge to try wedging his body under the couch. He paws at his ears self-consciously, trying to block Stiles out. Commentary on his looks, he’s had before. But this… this is _waxing poetic about his teeth. Who even does that?_

Between this and The Dream, he won’t be meeting Stiles’ eyes for a week.

He’s considering risking a nip at Stiles’ leg to get him to stop, or just shoving his whole head under the sofa cushions, when Stiles finally shows mercy. The silence that follows, however, is even more unsettling. Stiles just breaks off into complete silence. His eyes are distant as he gazes at the files spread out over the table. Derek would think that he’s going to fall asleep, except that it doesn’t feel that way at all. There’s no heavy feeling of sleep, but instead a _storm_ of emotion that grows darker and darker with each passing minute.

“There’s gonna be’nother one,” he slurs at last. “‘Nother vict’m and m’not… if I can’t figure it out…”

That’s enough. Derek is on his feet before he can even finish, jaws clasping around the hem of his shirt and tugging sharply.

“Huh? Hey, whatcha want… stoppit!” Stiles groans, swatting ineffectively at his flank. Derek barely resists rolling his eyes. “Whoa!” Pulling Stiles to his feet is simple. He even manages to do it without ripping the man’s shirt. The moment Stiles is up, Derek worms his way behind his legs and _shoves_ , sending him stumbling away from the couch. “What’re-- stop, hey, c’mon!” Getting Stiles moving towards the open bedroom door is rather like herding cats, for all the flailing limbs he has to watch out for. But he’s too sluggish to put up much resistance, especially when Derek shoves all his weight into the backs of his knees once they’re in the bedroom, sending the other man sprawling with a high-pitched squawk.

“Jerk…” Stiles accuses, but it’s slurred and half garbled by the bedsheets. He doesn’t move right away, his entire body melting into the bed. Satisfied that he isn’t going to try escaping, Derek leaps up onto the bed after him, wedging his snout under his arm until Stiles obeys, and drags himself further up the bed. “M’kay… ‘kay, got it. Sleepy time for Stiles. Don’ be a friggin’ bully.” Derek sits on his haunches; waits for Stiles to get comfortable. He looks, Derek thinks with satisfaction, like he’s about to drift off any second.

And then Stiles blinks slowly up at him, lashes fanning out over his cheeks with each motion. Derek can’t look away from them, or the parting of his lips as he takes a breath. “C’mere?” The request is so quiet and so indistinct that not even his hearing can pick it out of the sleepy moan at first. Not until Stiles lifts an arm for him. Derek freezes in place above him.

He shouldn’t.

Stiles’ jaw clenches, smothering a yawn. And the next time his eyes flutter open, they burn red in the darkness of the room.

“Please?”

_‘Fuck.’_

The sound Stiles makes as he hunkers down next to him, not quite in the circle of his arms, is more akin to a purr than anything. Almost immediately Stiles is squirming closer, making him roll onto his side so he can rest his head against his ribs. “Y’re really w’rm,” he whispers. It’s the easiest thing in the world for Derek to curl around him, nuzzling against his shoulders and craning to snuffle at his hair. He can’t resist the instinct. In that moment, he doesn’t want to.

Stiles takes one deep breath, and then another, and then, just like that, he’s asleep.

Derek doesn’t move, not just yet.

There’s no harm in staying. Just for a little while.

 --------------------5---------------------

 

It’s the chill in his limbs that wakes him. Not because it’s actually cold, but his arms and legs are exposed and still, as if he’s moved out from under a blanket sometime recently and it’s sending gooseflesh up and down them. Stiles shivers, his unhappy whine distant to his own ears. He pats blindly at the blankets, sighing when he finds a warm patch to roll into. It gives him a cozy nest to ease awake in, instead of being uncomfortable and cold. And it smells nice.

The dream of the wolf comes back to him slowly. He frowns. He doesn’t remember making it back to bed except for in his dream, which says something about how drained he’d been. The weirdly vivid dreams are starting to become a pattern. Which is not a path of mental health he wants to even consider.

Stiles heaves a sigh, patting the blankets around him in a futile search for his phone. He ends up spread-eagle across the bed, rubbing his limbs against the sheets rather than actually expending the effort to get up. When it’s nowhere to be found, however, he whines pathetically, before lifting himself upright.

It’s because he kneels there on the bed, staring in a daze at the sheets as he tries to wake up his brain, that he notices it.

“The hell…?”

There’s black hairs on his bedsheets.

Stiles swipes his hand across the sheets, gathering up a few of them. His other hand ruffles his own messy hair. No, no, they’re too coarse to be his. Darker too. They don’t even feel like human hair. It’s more like… fur.

_Dog fur._

“ _Holy--!_ ”

He falls out of bed in his haste to get to his phone.

 

** \--------------------6---------------------**

 

Kira’s just putting the finishing touches on their lunches when Scott’s phone rings. The Star Wars Cantina song is blasting from the bedroom, so it can only be one person. “One day Stiles is going to hear that and think his life has been a lie!” she calls. Scott’s soft laughter brings a smile to her face. She hears him pad out of the bathroom towards the phone, and turns her focus back to the sandwiches she’s been working on. It’s her turn to make lunches this week, and while she considers Scott the better cook, she’s determined to make even her modest sandwich make Scott smile!

“Okay. Here we go…” She takes the fox head sandwich cutter, and holds her breath as she presses it down. Kira grimaces in dread as she lifts it away. Her first attempts have all split open at the last second, or got stuck to the cutter as she pulled it off. At least if it doesn’t work this time she can just remake the sandwich and give the cutter to her class for crafts. She resists squeezing her eyes shut as she peers down at it, and lets out a gasp of triumph the instant she sees the perfect cutout. “Yes! He’s going to love it!”

In the bedroom, Scott picks up the phone. “Hey, Stiles, what’s--”

_“Scott, it’s real! I wasn’t fucking hallucinating, the damned thing is **real** and I wish I was hallucinating now that I-- holy shit, **holy shit** , Scott it followed me all the way here--”_

“Stiles? Stiles, what’s going on? Slow down, okay?”

Kira abandons the lunches, dodging around furniture in her haste to get to the bedroom. She stops in the doorway; meets Scott’s worried gaze with her own. He’s shirtless, his hair still damp from where Stiles had interrupted his morning routine. There’s two camisoles on the bed - a soft gray cami with lace hems and sky blue brindle patterned one - Scott hadn’t even finished picking out which to wear under his scrubs for the day.

 _“The wolf, dude!”_ Stiles shouts hysterically on the other end of the call. _“The wolf from the cabin! It… It **followed me back** what the fuck, this is insane. It’s been in my apartment, Scott! It slept in my bed last night-- I thought… I thought I was dreaming, this is so fucked.”_

Scott’s eyes are wide, his free hand running through his damp hair. “Stiles,” he says seriously, “is it still there?”

_“No, no, shit, but my bed has wolf fur on it. It shed all over my bed, Scott. I didn’t dream it or hallucinate it, it was actually **here** how the fuck did it even get up here I’m on the  **fourth** **floor** \--”_

“Stiles, calm down, okay? Do you need me to come over?”

Kira’s moved closer, though she only becomes aware of it when Scott reaches out to touch her arm. Stiles is silent for a few moments, the only sound is his harsh breathing and - if Kira really strains her senses - his pounding heart. _“N-No,”_ he says at last. _“No, I’m… I’m okay. Just… this is so fucking weird. I’m gonna… go get ready for work. Yeah.”_

“I’ll come over after my shift,” Scott promises. “We can hang out. All night. Just us. Okay?”

_“I… yeah. Yeah, that’d be great, buddy. I’ll-I’ll see you?”_

“At six. Promise. Call me if anything happens, okay?” He murmurs reassurances for a few moments more before he lets Stiles hang up. And then stares at his phone for a long time. They both do.

“It was Derek, wasn’t it, this whole time?” Scott asks quietly.

Kira can only nod.

There’s a miserable pinch to Scott’s mouth that she aches to soothe away. “I don’t want to lie to him,” Scott admits.“I don’t want to make him think he’s crazy. He’s my brother. I can’t--” His voice hitches. “I can’t make him go through that again. If he’s really… an Alpha, somehow, he needs to know.”

She bites her lip. “We should tell him. We always promised we would. But we don’t know why, or what changed with him.”

Scott nods unhappily. His shoulders heave with a sigh. “Why did this have to happen? It’s been so quiet. Why did it have to come back  _ now? _ ”

“I dunno. But… I could ask Derek. Today, after my class has gone home.”

Scott’s eyes widen. “Alone?” he croaks. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“I’ll be okay. Derek was always… his family were the good ones. _Derek_ was one of the good ones. My mom always speaks highly of the Hales. Of what they did for this town. So… so I should be okay to go talk to him.”

Scott’s hands come up to squeeze her shoulders, and draws her in close. “Be careful.”

“I will,” she assures him. “I’ll zap him if he gets too close. Wolves hate that.”

“I’m pretty sure everyone hates getting electrocuted?”

“Yeah, but they _really_ hate it.” Kira tilts her face up to meet Scott’s kiss halfway, all sweet, soothing warmth. She watches Scott him retreat to fret with the camis on the bed, and adds, “You know, the lace shirt you bought last week would look good with that blue one.”

His fingers hesitate with the hem of the blue camisole. “The gray shirt?”

“Yeah. It’d look cute with your scrubs.” Kira hops over to the closet to retrieve it, and smiles when she sees Scott already tugging the brindled blue cami over his head. She waits until he has it on to hold the gauzy shirt up to him. “See?” She traces the flower patterns in the lace . “You’ll look really pretty.”

His smile is bashful and absolutely _stunning_. Kira’s almost happy he doesn’t have the senses she does, or he’d hear how her heart skips and then races. “Yeah?”

“The… The prettiest!” she gushes, and giggles when he drags her in for another kiss.

\--------------------7---------------------

Kira Yukimura approaches him as he’s coming out of the grocery store, of all things, when Derek’s finally realized that living on take-out and waiting for the inevitable is no longer going to sustain him. She comes at him from downwind, though, and without hiding her footsteps, so he doesn’t immediately jump to defense. B ut even if she had tried to come at him unawares, there’s no way she could hide from him with the aura surrounding he. He watches her closely all the same, scowling at the hesitant smile she gives him.

“Hi,” she greets, and shifts awkwardly on her feet when he doesn’t answer back. “I know we didn’t get off on the right foot, you know, with me asking some really personal questions about why you’re here-- I’m uh. I’m sorry about that, by the way.”

Derek clenches his jaw.

“And I’m about to ask you even more questions that you won’t like, but _please, please_ answer them. I always thought you were a good guy, Derek, and I know that you haven’t been dealt the best hand or anything but--”

“Just--” He holds up a hand to get her to _stop talking_. “What is it, Kira?”

The Kitsune winces, fiddling with her fingers. She takes a deep breath, before her brow furrows in determination. “Are you here helping the Alpha?” she asks slowly.

“ _No_ ,” he growls immediately.

“Do you know who it is?”

“No.”

“What do you want with Stiles?”

“Why do you  _ care? _ ” he snaps, losing patience.

Kira’s lips pinch. “He’s my friend. I care about him. He… Stiles knows the wolf is real now. He called this morning, panicking because there was a wolf in his apartment last night.” Derek looks up sharply, his body aching with the sudden tension. It’s only when Kira steps back, startled and guarded, that he realizes he probably looks threatening to her.  
  
“He did,” Derek rumbles.

“Yeah.”

“Then I won’t go back.”

“I… okay?” Silence hangs between them, as if she’s expecting him to elaborate. He doesn’t. “Why were you going?”

“He’s the only one who could have clues on who the Alpha is,” he says reluctantly. The intent in his voice seems to be enough for her.

“ _Oh._  ...Did he?”

“No. I won’t go back.” It’s as much a promise to himself as to her. Derek adjusts his grip on his grocery bag, his posture broadcasting that the conversation is officially over. He inclines his head in her direction, and makes to walk to his car.

“Derek,” she stops him before he can take a step, “do you know why Stiles is an Alpha?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “No,” he admits, voice rough.

He doesn’t have any of the answers she wants. Nothing about this makes sense to him either.

\--------------------8---------------------

He’s been hovering outside the door for three minutes. Derek’s counted. Even if there hadn’t been the pull tugging at him, making his mind plead _‘Alpha, Alpha!’_ , the nervous, fluttering heartbeat would have told him everything. He’s actually starting to recognize the unique rhythm of Stiles’ heart now. The idea sends a shiver through him. Derek creeps up to the door, head tilted towards it to catch even the slightest hitch in Stiles’ breath.

“You can do this, Stiles,” comes the mutter through the door, and Derek can hear the creak of his shoes as he bounces on the balls of his feet. Derek barely holds back a breath of laughter. “Okay, here… we…”

He slides the industrial metal door open.

“Uhh.”

There’s nothing Derek can do to prepare himself for the sensory onslaught that is Stiles Stilinski. His scent hits him with the force of an oncoming storm, warm and earthy and _beckoning,_  always beckoning him to come closer, to immerse himself in his scent until it never leaves him. The trace of of interest, of lust, that’s interlaced with it doesn’t help him to suppress the urge. He fights not to react, not to grab Stiles by the shoulders and--

His eyes narrow into a glare, the train of his thoughts derailed by the parting of Stiles lips. Obscene.

 _‘I’m going to hurt him,’_ he silently threatens. _‘Or be driven insane first.’_

“Hey… Derek.”

Derek takes a subtle, steadying breath through his mouth. “Stiles.”

“This a bad time? I’ve got some questions for you.” The professional tone of voice catches Derek off kilter.

“What kind of questions?” he asks lowly, folding his arms over his chest. He balances the door open with his foot, ready to let it slide shut in Stiles’ face if he doesn’t like what comes next.

“About the case.” The door slides closed half an inch before he can stop it. “Just a few questions! If I can get a pattern down, I can track them.”

“You want to talk about Laura and Peter.” His voice comes out flat, distant to his own ears. Dread forms a tight knot in his chest.

“Mostly Laura,” Stiles confesses, his mouth twisted in a grimace. “The first victim is almost always the most important. A serial killer’s reason for starting is what sets them apart in terms of hunting them down.”

Derek sincerely contemplates just shutting the door on him. The last thing he wants is to relive any part of Laura’s death.

But _maybe_ Stiles can find something that he couldn’t. The idea, even the _chance_ , is so tempting that Derek steps aside to let him in. He holds his breath as Stiles goes by, not trusting himself to keep control when his scent is so intense. Without a word and keeping his eyes trained on the door, he gestures towards the makeshift sitting area. It’s only when he hears Stiles’ footsteps slow to a halt that Derek turns to look at him.

The deputy is standing in the center of the loft, peering around at it. He’s trying to appear casual, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that says otherwise. He’s not wearing his baggy clothes today, or even his uniform - which never seemed to fit him just right either - and the green hooded shirt clings to  him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Now that Stiles wearing clothes that actually fit him, the illusion of his frailness is broken. 

Derek clears his throat, as much to distract himself as Stiles. The man swings his head around, the sharp glint in his eyes fading just a second too late.

“Didn’t bring much with you, huh?” Stiles says with a pleasant smile.

“Just… bare essentials,” Derek replies cautiously.

“You must’ve left New York in a hurry then. I don’t even see any suitcases.”

Derek isn’t sure what Stiles is wheedling for, but he definitely doesn’t like it. “I didn’t plan to stay for long. A week at most. But that didn’t happen.” Keeping his words short makes the lying easier, even if his heart is going fast enough for any werewolf to know the truth.

Stiles hums, before gesturing to the far wall. “Still haven’t fixed that hole either.”

“Other things are more important. I thought you wanted to talk about Laura.” He moves past Stiles towards lumpy sofa and sinks down onto it.

“Yeah, I do.” Stiles claims the armchair just opposite, notebook in hand. “So this isn’t official. I’m not going to record it or anything like that. I just want to ask a few things. Clear some things up, yeah?”

Derek nods, fists clenching against his knees.

“Okay. In your statement, you gave Laura’s reason for being in Beacon Hills as coming back to deal with the estate. Did she give you any information other than that?”

“No.”

“So she just… up and left. ‘Peace, little bro, flying _across the country_ to check how the old place is doing, instead of emailing or calling someone, be back by Monday?’”

“Your professionalism is astounding.”

“But succinct. Seriously, she had to have given you more of a reason than that.”

“I think she wanted to see Peter.”

“So she came to visit him.”

“Yes, Stiles. He was our _last surviving relative_. Of course she went to see him. We called the hospital every month. She planned to stay a few days. She could do both.”

“You said she contacted you while she was here. Did she say anything was out of place? With the house? With your uncle?”

“She… was worried about Peter. Of course she was. But she didn’t… Well, she did say she was going to look at the house.”

What she actually said, upon calling Derek was: _“Something’s wrong, Derek. I can feel it. I just can’t put my finger on it… I have to find out what’s going on here. The whole place feels **wrong**. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”_ Derek knows exactly what she meant, now. Beacon Hills feels like death.

He frowns as Stiles jots something down. He can see the gears turning in Stiles’ head, but for _what_ , he hasn’t the faintest idea. And that’s… just a little terrifying. Stiles has proven to be unpredictable. Derek can’t even fathom which direction his mind is going.

As it turns out, it’s a horrible one.

“Tell me about the Argents.”

Derek’s entire body seizes. The urge to bolt off the couch comes on so quick he barely manages to stop it. But his leg gives a telling jerk, knocking into the coffee table in front of him. He doesn’t answer. _Refuses_ to answer.

“Come on, don’t shut down on me now. Word is your family hated the Argents. That true, or is that small town gossip?”

“We never really got along, no,” Derek retorts through gritted teeth.

“See, I’m sensing that’s an understatement. Kate Argent was one of the Alpha’s last victims, you know.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” he snaps.

“It means that at least two of the victims knew Kate Argent that we know of, that two of them were definitely connected to the Hale house before and after the fire, _four_ if you include Peter and Laura Hale. There are three things in this case that seem to be connected, the fire, the Argents, and _you_. My dad has this rule. One’s incident, two’s coincidence, but three? Three is a _pattern_ , Derek. So _enlighten me_.”

Derek leaps to his feet. “ _Get out._ ” The shift prickles along his skin, barely checked. He manages to storm past Stiles before his vision bleeds red at the corners. He grabs the man by the arm, dragging him from his seat despite his struggles and his indignant shouts of protest. “ _Get out of my loft_ ,” he growls dangerously.

He’s nearly tugged Stiles to the door when the man finally shoves him. It’s not the strength of the blow that jostles him rather than the vehemence and the sudden, electrifying touch. Derek recoils a step. “I know you’re hiding something!” Stiles is shouting. “You _know something._ You show up in town right before the Alpha does, you’ve been _following me_ since I got the case, and there’s something up with you and the Argents!” There’s a fiery glint in his eyes, like a spark igniting whiskey. He’s captivating, even through Derek’s barely restrained fury. “I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know if you’re helping the Alpha--”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish, because Derek grabs a fistful of his shirt and has him against the wall in the next blink. “ _Don’t,_ ” he snarls, shoving Stiles further up, until his mouth opens in a gasp. “Don’t you _dare._ You think I killed Laura?! She was all I had left and that bastard _ripped her in half!_ ” Stiles isn’t the only one gasping for breath. Derek can feel his chest brushing against the backs of his hands on every heavy, shaking inhale. His blood thunders in his ears. They’re close, so close - Derek can see the flecks of gold in Stiles’ eyes. His hands shake, he’s _trembling_ with rage and something so hollow and _awful_ that it leaves him cold. His limbs don’t feel like his own.

Derek feels like he’s falling apart, but Stiles only looks calm. His gaze is steady. And Derek wants to _shake_ him, to _ruin_ him. To wipe that expression off his face. “Derek,” he calls, sounding far off despite how close they are, “do you know who killed Laura?”

The question _burns_ through him. He feels the bond tug, and knows what’s happening even before Stiles’ eyes glow red. This close, the pull is enough to make his knees buckle. There’s no time to hide, to control his expression, to mask the way his head dips forward, instinctively _baring his throat to his Alpha_. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he rasps. And that’s true. That is true, at least. But Derek _knows_ the vital piece of this puzzle that Stiles needs. The thing that Stiles can _never_ know.

But Derek wants to tell him. And that’s the most painful realization. He _wants_. He wants _Stiles_. Stiles is so, _so close_. The scent of him is inescapable. Everything that is Stiles is pervading all of Derek’s senses and Derek doesn’t know if he can resist it anymore.

“Derek…”

The touch is the final straw. The caress of those nimble fingers over his arm, as soft as a butterfly’s wings, breaks the last of his restraint. He lets his body sag forward. His face drag across Stiles’ shoulder for just the slightest second, before lifting his head and closing the distance between their lips. It’s the easiest thing in the world, to let go

\-----------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 7.**


	8. It will be held against you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One minute Derek has him pinned against the unforgiving - and uncomfortable - wall with murder in his eyes, and the next he looks like he’s going to _break_ , just shake apart where he’s standing. It’s the first time Stiles has seen that kind of devastation and vulnerability on Derek’s face, and he quickly decides that he _never_ wants to see it again. Nevermind that Derek is close enough that Stiles can feel every shudder, every tremulous gasp, even the pulse racing where Derek has his hands squeezed tight between them. Nevermind that it’s turned from threatening to _intimate_ in the span of a breath. Nevermind that Derek is beautiful and broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND THEN I come dragging this chapter in kicking and screaming a year later. 
> 
> Whoops.
> 
> Looks like I got caught in the TOO MANY IDEAS spiral mixed with the FUCK WRITING SMUT IS HARD spiral. But we got there in the end! This chapter is **so very NSFW** so... enjoy that. Seriously, I hope you love it! I want to give a simultaneous thank you to anyone who checks this fic out after a year, and an apology to everyone who was waiting. I'm so excited to finally put this out into the world again. Thank you. :)
> 
> And hey, if you'd like, you can come visit me on [my tumblr!](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/)

 

\--------------------1---------------------

 

One minute Derek has him pinned against the unforgiving - and uncomfortable - wall with murder in his eyes, and the next he looks like he’s going to _break_ , just shake apart where he’s standing. It’s the first time Stiles has seen that kind of devastation and vulnerability  on Derek’s face, and he quickly decides that he _never_ wants to see it again. Nevermind that Derek is close enough that Stiles can feel every shudder, every tremulous gasp, even the pulse racing where Derek has his hands squeezed tight between them. Nevermind that it’s turned from threatening to _intimate_ in the span of a breath. Nevermind that Derek is beautiful and broken.

Calling to him doesn’t accomplish anything. And Stiles begins to flounder, fearing that he’s pushed Derek into the same kind of horrible headspace as the night Argent cornered him.

Just when he’s sure he’s caused the man irrevocable distress, Derek lifts his head.

And kisses him.

And Stiles’ brain promptly short-circuits. He stands there, hand clenched around Derek’s bicep as Derek kisses him. Not that Derek seems to mind. It’s not until Stiles’ nose bumps against his cheek, such a perfectly imperfect detail, his nose getting squished with how close they are, that his mind catches up with itself. Because that’s definitely _real,_ this imperfect reality. This isn’t another vivid dream. This is _real_. Derek is _really_ kissing him. _Really_ letting out little gasps of hot breath as he presses kiss after fervent kiss and _holy god._

He gets his hands between them, knocking Derek’s arms out of the way just enough to get his hands buried in soft, dark hair, and drags him in. Derek’s hands fall to his hips, lips parting in surprise at the sudden movement and Stiles devours the muffled sound it causes. He holds Derek to him, returning the kisses with a feverish exhilaration. It’s hot and wet and it’s  the scrape of Derek’s beard and the nip of teeth at his lips and the mingling of breath when they part for air. It’s too warm, they’re too close and Derek is like a furnace against him.

There’s the smallest reprieve as Derek skims the tip of his nose over his cheekbone, a shockingly gentle caress in comparison to the frenzy. He shivers as lips brush against the curve of his jaw, framed by the ticklish scratch of stubble. “You--” Stiles licks his lips as he tries to find his voice, and gets distracted by the phantom taste on them. “Derek, are you--” He has to know - has to know where Derek’s mind is.

“Shut up,” comes the growl right in his ear, with more control than Stiles expects. And that’s okay. They can do the angry, biting sex thing. That’s more than okay, as long as Derek is 100% here with him and not lost in his head. He shifts his grip, hand cupping the back of Derek’s neck and guiding him into place. Until Derek has to wedge a leg between his and he can crane his head forward to graze his mouth against Derek’s throat. He feels rather than hears the moan, breath fanning against the crook of his neck.

He’s not sure if Derek falls into him or if he pulls him in, but after that Derek’s weight is what’s pressing him to the wall, not a bit of space between them and Stiles is _not_ imagining the firmness grinding into his hip.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” he blurts out. This is happening.

_ ‘This shouldn't be happening,’  _ the last vestiges of his reason whispers.

_This is so happening_. He rolls his hips against Derek’s thigh, enthusiastically reciprocating. His mouth latches onto the sharp line of Derek’s jaw, scraping his teeth over it and maybe, just _maybe_ flicking his tongue against his beard. Just a little. He’s living the dream. “Hey,” he breathes, fingers tapping their way down Derek’s arm. “Hey, you wanna-- bed? A bed would be nice. Or a couch. I could deal with the couch.” Stiles should be rewarded for his calm suggestions. Because really, he’s showing tremendous restraint in not simply climbing this man like a tree.

“Why are you always _talking_?” Derek hisses through gritted teeth, bringing their lips together again as if he’s trying to smother any sound coming out of Stiles’ mouth. Which is not exactly a unfamiliar sentiment with the people Stiles has slept with. But it’s not one he particularly enjoys. Stiles’ lip curls in a mean smile, and he nips hard at Derek’s upper lip.

“S’a gift. Now you gonna get horizontal with me, big guy, or do y’wanna _talk_ some more?” That gets him a growl - like an _actual_ growl, which should not turn him on nearly as much as it does - right against his lips. Stiles can feel it vibrating against his chest, which distracts him for the second before he’s being pulled away from the wall by hands fisted in his shirt. “Whoa!” He stumbles forward, because Derek isn’t giving him a chance to get his feet under him. He’s just hauled across the loft.  Not that he minds, so much, when he sees he’s being dragged towards the bed at the far end of the room.

“Keeping your bed in your living room,” he tsks mockingly. “You must have such classy parties-- _oof!_ ” Stiles cuts off in a rush of air as he’s swung around and all but trips onto the bed. A hand plants itself in the middle of his chest, pushing him down before he can completely get his bearings.

“You try hauling a mattress up a narrow spiral staircase. If you want to change location, be my guest.” Derek climbs onto the bed after him, wasting no time in leaning right back into his space, like it was killing him not to kiss him or to have hands on him.

Now _that’s_ a thought Stiles likes.

He surges up, meeting Derek’s kiss halfway. “M’good,” he breathes in a rush between rough slides of their lips. “Good right here.” He’s not sure which of them seals their mouths together in a deeper kiss, but that is _definitely_ Derek’s tongue in his mouth, flicking over the ridge of his teeth and tasting his own. Stiles melts into the sheets with a pleased moan, hands sliding over their softness before darting up to grasp at Derek’s shirt. His mind is only focused on holding Derek there for now, to _keep him_ there so that this doesn’t have to end. Derek’s seems to run on a slightly different path, his hands starting to wander over Stiles’ shoulders, up and down his sides, over his chest.

And Stiles jolts, his yelp more surprised than ecstatic - but _wanting_ , yes absolutely more of that please - as his fingers find a nipple through his shirt. The other man freezes, and sits up, staring down at his hand speculatively. His eyes flick up to Stiles’, brows arching.

“Uh. Sensitive?” Stiles offers, his breath catching on a whimper as Derek flicks a finger over the taut peak through his shirt. He can see the exact moment Derek feels the hard ridge of metal, his eyes widening a fraction. The next brush is firmer, and Stiles bites his lip at the delicious tug. His shirt is hastily rucked up to his armpits. And Stiles’ face goes hot. Because he’s had partners react favorably to his nipple piercings in bed before, but _never_ has he seen someone look that _hungry_ over them.

“Uh. Yeah, so… ta-da?” Stiles covers up his need to squirm under the intense _leer_ by worming his way out of his shirt. He barely gets it over his neck when the weight above him shifts. And then a hot mouth closes around his nipple. “ _Ccchrist!_ ” Stiles arches, his yelp muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “I didn’t--” Lips close around the end of one of the barbells and _tugs_ , and Stiles breaks off in a whimper. “ _Jerk_ ,” he hisses. He knees Derek in the side. “Let me get my _shirt off_!”

Derek, because he’s an _asshole_ , responds by biting down.

Eventually Stiles does manage to wriggle the shirt up over his head, but not before Derek’s nibbled and sucked until he’s hot and oversensitive and _aching_. He flings his shirt away just as the man blows cool air over the pebbled, reddened flesh. He’s not that sorry when his failing arm knocks into Derek’s temple. Not at all.

Because Derek? Derek is smirking at him like he’s perfectly, unrepentantly aware of what he’s doing and Derek is an _asshole._ Stiles reaches down to grab him by the jaw, pulling him back up into a searing kiss to wipe that grin off his face. “If you don’t hurry up…” he warns, voice rough. He doesn’t so much kiss along Derek’s jaw as he does drag his parted lips along the sharp angle of his face towards his ear. His teeth catch on the lobe of his ear and Derek shudders above him. “If you don’t hurry up and fuck me,” he repeats, “I’m gonna throw you down and do it myself.”

A strangled moan is muffled against his shoulder. Derek stills, and slowly pulls back. And Stiles’ words catch up to him.

“Uh, if you want to, I mean. Do you want to fuck me?”

The intense gleam in Derek’s eyes is back again. “Seriously?” His tone is neutral, with just an edge of heat. But for the life of him, Stiles can’t discern what exactly he’s questioning.

“Yeeess? We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” He sits up on his elbows. “I’d really like it if you did, but if you just wanna trade handies or make out then I’m _never_ going to say no to that?”

Derek continues to stare at him.

“...What? Did I insult you? Fuck, I didn’t say something wrong, did I?” He winces. “Because I really want this. I want you--”

His pants are yanked roughly at the waistband. “ _Get your pants off_ ,” Derek growls. And _wow_ , if he thought his pants were uncomfortably tight _before_ , he’s in for a surprise.

“I-- _guh_ , you get your shirt off! _And_ your pants off. Please just get naked.”

The other man scoffs, and leans back to pull his shirt over his head. He tosses it away unceremoniously, not even caring that Stiles’ eyes are about to pop out of his skull. He thinks he might be drooling.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he curses. He reaches down to stop Derek’s hands where they’ve gone back to trying to undo his pants. “Wait, wait. Can I just… have a minute?” It gets Derek to pause, at least. Concern flickers across his face for about half a second, before Stiles actually gets his hands on him. His fingers tap their way over his collarbones first, sliding down through his chest hair and grazing his nipples as they pass. Stiles follows the lines of his body down and down, reverently pressing his fingers to the hard ridges of his abs and into the divots of his hips. He may sneak a quick feel as his hands glide down towards his thighs - lets his fingers trace the shape of Derek through his jeans.

The muscles of his stomach contract, but it’s the only outward sign of how Stiles’ touches affect him. “Are you done?” he drawls.

“ _Neverrrr_ ,” Stiles croons back. Okay, he might be speaking to Derek’s crotch more than he is to _Derek_ at the moment. He glances up just in time to see the man roll his eyes.

“Enough. Either do something or  _let me_.”

He grins. “Why, Mister Hale, are you inviting me to take your pants off?”

“ _Yes,_ Stiles. But not if you keep that up.”

A witty comeback is on the tip of his tongue. But it’s his libido that wins out, so Stiles is forced to surrender. A beautiful surrender, considering that it leads him to smoothing his hands over the front of Derek’s pants, quickly unfastening them and shoving them off his hips. He looks  _sinful_ straining against the front of his underwear. (Stiles catalogues that, apparently, Derek is a brand name shorts kind of guy. Calvin Kleins. What. _What_.)

Stiles scoots closer without thinking, head dipping to lick at the mouthwatering line of his happy trail. It makes him _giddy_ to think about - that he’s finally getting his mouth on Derek Hale’s abs, after wanting nothing but this for weeks. He’s stroking him through his ridiculous brand name underwear and listening to him sigh and stifle moans above him. And Derek is letting him. _Letting him_ take his time instead of just shoving him back and fucking his brains out, like Stiles was so sure this was going to go.

“Stiles, come on,” Derek pushes, fingers carding through Stiles’ hair. The touch is almost gentle on the first pass. And then Derek tangles his fingers in the longer strands at his scalp and tugs insistently.

“Getting there, getting there. Just… enjoying.”

“Enjoy later.”

“Now, later, during. S’all the same, really.” But he listens anyway, hooking fingers in Derek’s waistband and pulling them down his thighs. Stiles can’t resist taking Derek in hand as soon as he springs free, sucking in a breath at how _hard_ he is. They’ve barely done anything but Derek is heavy in his hand, soft flesh pulled tight and _hot_. It hits him then, just how much Derek wants this.

Wants _him._

His stomach does a dizzying swoop at the thought. Stiles presses his face into Derek’s skin, mouthing at the dips of his abs while he strokes his cock with slow, firm twists of his wrist. The muscles tremble under his lips, a strangled sound coming from above him. Stiles risks looking up, and has to swallow past his suddenly constricting throat because Derek is watching him. Derek is watching him with dark eyes, lids heavy and framed by black as night lashes. There’s a blush high on his cheeks, just barely visible under his beard and _fuck_ he looks so good. Stiles knows then and there that he would do anything just to keep Derek looking at him like this.

Stiles leans down, keeping their gazes locked for as long as he’s able, and brushes his lips over the velvety soft length of him. It’s an unbearable tease, but Derek doesn’t get annoyed at him this time. Instead Stiles watches his lips part in a soundless moan, watches his eyes spark in pleasure and anticipation. So Stiles keeps doing it, keeps playing with his dick and watching Derek react from under his lashes. He’s uncut - which, _ohhhoho yes,_ ranks high on Stiles’ list of mouth-watering dick features - and Stiles wastes no time in mouthing at his foreskin, sucking gently at it. Derek freezes above him, even holding his breath. He smirks, and does it again, before laving his tongue along the ridge of the head.

The grip on Stiles’ hair tightens, tugging him away,  just shy of painful. “Lie back,” he commands hoarsely. “Lie back.” Stiles lets himself be pushed onto the bed again, but he doesn’t mind so much because Derek’s eyes are glinting with promise. The man steps off the bed briefly, just long enough to kick off his jeans tangled around his thighs. Thighs that look like they could crush Stiles easily. Shit, there isn’t a part of Derek that doesn’t exude strength. He’s all long limbs and corded muscle and it’s more than enough to make Stiles feel _just a tiny bit_ self-conscious.

And giddy, because that? He’s about to get all up on that.

Derek pauses with a knee on the bed, thick brows curving in a way that should not be as attractive as it is. “I don’t want to know.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve got this dopey look on your face.”

“I’m _appreciating,_ Derek!” he snaps. “Can’t I enjoy the thought that I’m about to be fucked by someone this smokin’ hot?”

Derek has the nerve to roll his eyes, but Stiles isn’t imagining the warm flush to his face. “Whatever.” Rude.  But Stiles doesn’t have the heart to complain when he’s reaching for Stiles’ pants, fingers smoothing over the waistband before working his button and fly open. He tugs the jeans and boxers off him with a single-minded purpose that Stiles actually admires, all but ripping them off as if they’d personally insulted him.

There’s a distinct, abrupt pause as Derek is trying to get the pants off him. Enough that Stiles lifts himself up onto his elbows to see what’s going on, only to find Derek staring directly at his dick. Hungrily. Which is flattering, intensely flattering, but also kind of unnerving. And hey, Stiles knows he’s got an above average dick, alright? He’ll never forget watching Jackson Whittemore’s smug grin melt off his face one glorious afternoon in the locker room. The satisfaction will stick with him for _years._

But despite all that, being under _scrutiny_ still makes Stiles second guess himself. All the possible imperfections (because let’s face it, dicks are just as weird and varied as people are) rush through his mind. “You’re going to give him stage fright if you keep staring like that,” he manages to joke. He expects a jab at referring to his cock in the third person. But Derek _licks his lips_ , eyes making a slow journey back up his body to his face. He says nothing, at first, just watches him intensely as the rest of his clothes are tugged off. “ _Dude_ ,” Stiles pleads, face hot.

Thankfully, Derek finally seems to get the message. “Stop freaking out.” He reaches for the bedside chest (no one could call that monstrosity a bedside dresser). “And the next time you talk about your dick in the third person, I’m throwing you into the hall. Naked.”

Stiles heart rate ratchets up even before the other man tosses the lube and condom onto the bed. He’d be lying if he said the threat didn’t excite him. Everything about Derek just makes him want to push his buttons. He has to bite his tongue to keep from doing exactly that.

He doesn’t have the chance, which is probably a good thing. Derek returns to the space between his legs, wide hands curling around his thighs and pulling him closer. Stiles watches him slick his fingers, throat dry. He spreads his legs without being asked, arching his hips up eagerly. It earns him a smirk that is nothing short of _predatory_ , which isn’t helping the steady thrum of desire at all.

The anticipation is too much to take. Stiles lets his head fall back, squeezing his eyes shut. The first slide of slick fingers is gentle enough that he doesn’t jump. He breathes in slowly, keenly aware of the excited tremble in his thigh. The light kiss to his hip, however, _does_ jolt him. “Relax,” Derek rumbles up at him.

“I _am_ relaxed,” he hisses, “just-- ugh _fuck_.” Derek pressing a finger past his rim is a slow, sweet burn. Stiles squirms, adjusting to the stretch quickly. It’s not uncomfortable at all - he’s so, _so_ ready for this. But this… this is nothing like he expected.

He _expected_ things to follow in the same pattern as they had at the start. With Derek pushing and getting in his space, manhandling him into position, demanding Stiles to undress. Rough is what he expected. Rough and angry in the _best_ of ways. Every interaction with Derek up until this point has said that’s how sex would go. Stiles has thought about it in great detail over the last few weeks - imagined every possible nuance in his free (and private) time.

And this isn’t exactly loving and gentle. (Which is a good thing, since Stiles would be _having a meltdown_.) But it’s playful caresses and thick fingers twisting into him and the sly, heated gleam in Derek’s eyes. It’s Derek lowering his head to scrape his teeth at the sensitive patch of skin between thigh and groin as he opens him up. It’s Derek pressing kisses up the length of his dick like he’s starving for it.

The thought makes him dizzy.

Stiles reaches down to get in fingers in soft, dark hair, groaning at the attention. The hot stretch of Derek’s fingers in him trickles over his nerves, so, _so_ easy with how much Stiles wants this. His long legs splay over the bed, giving Derek all the room he needs to work, to dribble more lube onto his fingers to spread over his rim and in him.

“I’m gonna need you to fuck me,” he chuckles breathlessly after a while. Because Derek keeps thrusting fingers into him at just the right speed and pressure and he’s, _Christ_ , he’s started nuzzling at his balls like someone who’s far more into this than a hate fuck. And it needs to stop before Stiles comes or loses his goddamn _mind._ Tugging on Derek’s hair doesn’t help, and only earns him a hard nip to the inside of his thigh. “ _Fuck_ ,” he curses, jolting. The sting of teeth last seconds, but way his body burns at the pain doesn’t. “I’m ready,” he urges. “Come on, _come on_.”

The choked whimper that leaves his mouth as Derek sits up is either from relief or need, but Stiles can’t decide which. He’s not even bothered with Derek withdrawing his fingers, because the look in the other man’s eyes sparks fire in Stiles’ chest. Finally, _finally_ they’re doing this. And Stiles can’t help if his eyes have gone a little wide as he watches Derek rip open the condom packet and smooth it over his dick.

Derek nudges him with a hand on his hip, breaking the momentary spell. Stiles scurries to obey, wriggling onto his front and trying very, _very_ hard not to accidentally kick Derek anywhere tender. He’s guided onto his stomach, rather than his hands and knees. The silence is suddenly intense, _expectant_. Stiles presses his face into Derek’s sheets and forces himself to keep quiet. If he opens his mouth and ruins this, Stiles will never forgive himself.

The warm hand on his back makes him twitch, smothering a quiet gasp. The silence hanging around them should be awkward, even oppressive, but the anticipation is so thick that it’s just heady. And then yes, _yes_ finally Derek eases inside him, thick and hot and dragging a ragged groan from Stiles. The mattress shifts as Derek repositions, his weight coming down on his elbows on either side of him. Like this Stiles can feel every little breath along his shoulders, can feel the _heat_ of the other man as he fucks into him with short, rolling thrusts.

Now all Stiles can hear is his own harsh breaths. They sound punched out of him. Not that he cares, when all he can think about is Derek splitting him open on his dick.

Derek doesn’t quite still when he eventually bottoms out, but gentles his movement into shiver-inducing rolls of his hips. “Okay?” he asks, his voice low and rough.

Stiles can’t find his voice to answer at first, so he nods, cheek rubbing against the sheets. The stretch and the sting are just shy of uncomfortable, but it’s so _good_ at the same time. And it’s not just the sensation of being fucked, because Stiles can accomplish that with any toy he has, really. It’s the press of a body on top of him, of breath against his back, of Derek leaning down to brush thoughtless kisses to his shoulder blade, just short of _nuzzling_.

And still, Derek waits for him.

“M’good,” he answers at last. Fuck, his voice should _not_ sound so wrecked when they’ve barely done anything. “Move.” He punctuates it by shoving his hips back, and he’s not sure if it’s the movement or the choked gasp Derek makes that sends sparks up his spine.

It’s all Stiles can do not to lose his mind once Derek starts moving. He’s not gentle about it - which is _great_ because Stiles is too far gone to handle _gentle_ at this point. But neither is Derek taking from him. No, he’s not _taking,_ simply chasing his own pleasure. Stiles would only describe being fucked by Derek Hale as being _given_ something - given pleasure, given a goddamned _gift_ , given an intense and thorough _fuck_ . It’s fervent and dirty and the _sounds_ that Derek makes - the almost _broken_ , ardent whimpers and gasps that Derek barely hides are almost the amazing thing about the entire experience.

“ _Yeah_ , just like that,” he finds himself rasping. He angles his hips a little higher, pressing back into Derek’s thrusts and yelping when the next stroke makes heat zing through him. “Oh _fuck--_ yeah, _yeah,_ keep--” He swallows down a moan. “Feels so good…”

“ _Stiles!_ ” Derek growls, rhythm shuddering. The sudden slam of his hips sends Stiles rocking up the bed a bit, and he laughs, high and broken. Strong arms bracket him, wedging themselves under his body, wrapping around his chest. Derek’s weight presses him further into the bed, and it should be smothering but it’s so _good_ \- being both held and held down. Stiles curses and moans, hands flitting back to grab Derek’s arm, his shoulder, his thigh as he fucks him. _Anything_ he can hold onto.

And Stiles doesn’t know if Derek is purposefully trying to _destroy him_ , but he’s doing a _damn fine job of it._ It’s a dim thought in his mind as Derek’s pace crests and ebbs, fast, almost brutal thrusts chasing Stiles ever closer to the edge and then easing off into deep, languid rolls of his hips. Each wave pushing Stiles into even more of a mindless wreck, until all he can make is reedy moans and pleas for more. He strains back against Derek’s weight, sloppily meeting his thrusts until the pleasure spikes so hot that he cries out. Until he can’t _take it_ anymore, and shoves a hand under his body and around his dick. There’s not enough room to do much more than get a hand around himself and just let their movements do the work. But it’s _enough_ , and soon Stiles is coming with a hoarse shout, the only thought making it through his orgasm is that he’s getting come all over Derek Hale’s sheets.

The thought is more satisfying  than it should be.

His brain is still fizzling out, pleasure still sparking along his nerves, when he realizes that Derek doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping. Even though it’s obvious how close he is. Even though he’s lost control of his rhythm and is now just _rutting_ into Stiles’ pliant, fucked out body. Even though Derek is _shaking_ above him, clutching at Stiles and the sheets and muffling whimpers into his shoulder.

“Ugh, _fffuck…_ ” Stiles pants. It’s quickly edging past _too good_ and into oversensitive _I can’t take it_ territory. He writhes under Derek’s weight, limbs uncooperative, mind still buzzing. In the end, all he manages is to flail a hand over his shoulder until it lands in Derek’s hair. His lips mash against Derek’s temple as he turns his head. It’s uncoordinated at best, but Stiles doesn’t think Derek is in any state to notice. “Come,” Stiles whispers, the words coming fast and breathy. “Come for me. I want you to. _Derek_ , please.”

And Derek jolts as if he’s been struck, something like an actual sob leaving him, his hips stuttering, _shaking_.

Stiles knows he has him. “Yeah, that’s it.” He lets Derek clutch at him, even though the man is holding onto him so tight that it’s more than a little uncomfortable. But it’s okay when Derek is shaking apart above him, seemingly  too overwhelmed to do anything more than gasp and tremble.

And that’s definitely a mind-blowing orgasm. Stiles has _rocked Derek Hale’s world -_ reduced him to a boneless, quivering mess - there’s no doubt about it.

Holy shit, he’s going to have that put on his _grave_.

Stiles is so smug about it that he doesn’t even care that Derek’s dead weight is pinning him to the bed. His body shakes, a mixture of wheezy laughter and pleasurable aftershocks. After he’s wriggled for more than a few seconds, Derek seems to catch on and lift up. Stiles’ sigh of relief is cut off with an unsteady gasp as the movement causes Derek to slip out of him. The oversensitive, fucked out discomfort strikes quickly. Grimacing, Stiles hefts his weight up on one elbow, shifting further up the bed - and turns, only to find his mouth captured in a hard, breathless kiss.

His mind promptly liquefies all over again. “Oh,” he mumbles against Derek’s mouth; gasps as he licks his way in. “Oh-- _mm_ , hi.” His back hits the bed before his brain catches up. The kiss broken, he finds himself staring up the ceiling, with what is no doubt the _dopiest_ smile on his face. Derek hovers somewhere above him, face flushed with pleasure and exertion, eyes gleaming, and his hair sticking from where Stiles had carded his fingers through and pulled and smoothed it back.

It’s unfairly adorable.

“Hi,” he says again.

Derek only grunts at him. Wordy as ever. Stiles basks in the afterglow, dimly watching the other man tie a knot in the condom and toss it in what he assumes is the direction of the trash. It must miss, because he hears it hit the floor with a slick, rubbery splat. Gross.

It’s not until Derek has been stretched out beside him on the bed for several minutes that Stiles’ brain starts to catch up. They’re not _cuddling_ or anything like that - no, there’s at least six inches of space between them. They’re just… lying there, trying to catch their breath. Derek’s spread out on his stomach beside him, looking relaxed and even a little bit _peaceful_. Which is great. _Great_. But Stiles had started this off with informal questioning and they’d somehow turned it into _fucking_ and--

 _‘Awkward,’_ Stiles’ mind supplies. Yeah, this is going to get awkward fast.

“Stop freaking out,” Derek grumbles, making him jump. “I’m not going to kick you out.” One eye slits open, watching him.

“Oh.” Stiles peers back, taking in his loose limbs and soft expression. “O-Okay. So uh, nap, then? I could go for a nap.”

Derek huffs. “Sure.” But his dismissive agreement is belied by the sleepy thickness of his tone. Stiles waits until his eyes close again to scoot a little closer. Just enough to feel the heat coming off him. Close enough that, if he wanted, he could touch Derek.

If he wanted.

Instead, he shuts his eyes, forces himself not to think about how awkward this could get, and listens to Derek’s breathing go deep and slow.

 

 \--------------------2---------------------

 

Stiles isn’t sure how long he dozes. The afternoon sun is still pouring through the huge windows near the bed the next time he opens his eyes, so it can’t have been long. His skin feels cool in the still air of the loft (it can barely be called an apartment - it’s got that giant _hole in the wall,_ for fuck’s sake), and it’s probably what woke him up. There’s no moment of clarity to snap him out of sleep, no confusion over where he is or why he’s naked. His mind leaps from _‘A little cold...’_ straight to _‘I slept with Derek Hale’_ even before Stiles opens his eyes.

Derek is still sprawled out beside him. His hair is even more of a mess and his cheek is squished against the sheets, and Stiles knows that when he wakes up there’s going to be crease marks on his face. But as amusing as the thought is, Stiles is more amazed at how peaceful, how gentle, the man looks right now. Not once leading up to today has he seen Derek anything less than _surly_.

He leans up on his elbows, just watching Derek sleep without disturbance for a while. If the shadows under his eyes are any indication, a nap appears to be just what Derek needed. And maybe a good meal.

Stiles should invite him to lunch when he wakes up.

Almost as soon as the idea occurs to him, Stiles winces. Yeah, no, that’s not going to happen. Not only would Stiles be turned down faster than he could _ask_ , but there’s also a part of him (that sounds disturbingly like Scott) that reminds him exactly how complicated and _fucked_ the situation is. Derek’s a part of a high profile case. Not just a high profile case, but one that Stiles has dedicated his entire adult life to ( _obsessed_ , the Scott-like voice adds, the word is _obsessed_ ). And Stiles can _feel it in his bones_ that Derek knows something, possibly something that could unravel the whole case, but is refusing to tell anyone.

Even sleeping with Derek had been a stupid idea. An intense, mind-boggling, _standard-raising_ idea, but a stupid one nonetheless. Even if Derek said yes to… to what? A _date? Christ._ Even then, it could make things complicated for Stiles.

He heaves a sigh, almost mournfully observing the man sleeping next to him. _‘It never would work anyway,’_ he reminds himself. One (insanely good) fuck isn’t enough to base a relationship off of.

It’s pointless to even consider it. And yet he so desperately _wants_ to consider it.

His eyes trace the curves of the triple-spiral tattoo that stands out starkly against Derek’s back. His fingers itch to follow the path of his gaze, but it feels like that would be crossing some kind of line. “Huh,” he murmurs absently. Laura Hale had had an identical one, in the center of her chest. A memorial to his sister, possibly?

_‘At least it’s not as tacky as Scott’s first tat.’_

(Stiles actually likes Scott’s more recent tattoos - the twin floral patterns in soft pastels on his left hip and right shoulder. They suit him. Stiles can discern a _meaning_ out of them - that they help Scott feel more at home in his skin. And he gets that Scott’s first tattoo was supposed to be a symbol of him moving past his heartbreak after Allison left. But… for the life of him, he can’t figure out how two black bands symbolize _anything._ )

His idle perusal (read: admiring) of Derek’s body is how he finds the other tattoo. At first all he sees is a hint of black ink low on the man’s right side. It’s partially hidden by the position Derek is in, so Stiles curiously levers himself up a bit further to get a better look. And stops.

It’s a spiral.

Not a triple spiral design like the one on his back - which seems a whole lot more _sinister_ than a memorial now. It’s a single spiral.

It doesn’t necessarily have to mean something horrible. Rationally, Stiles _knows_ that. But he also knows that every instinct he has is telling him otherwise. There’s a hollow pit in his stomach that grows and grows the longer he stares at the deceptively simple little design.

This was a mistake.

Holy shit, this was a _big mistake._

Stiles scurries out of bed as stealthily as he can. He dresses quickly, tripping over the leg of his pants putting them on, eyes too focused on Derek to pay attention. In the end he only throws on his pants and his undershirt, forgoing underwear, the rest of his clothes, and even his shoes. Stiles just gathers them up as quickly and as quietly as possible, and backs away from the bed.

He doesn’t even leave through the door. He finally makes use of that giant hole in the wall, and escapes Derek’s loft barefoot and half-dressed.

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

When Derek wakes, it’s to a cold bed and a silent loft. The haze of sleep is still thick. His mind struggles to recover. He buries his nose in sheets that still smell faintly of _Alpha_ , and contemplates just going right back to sleep. The exhaustion of the past week - hell, the past _few weeks_ , ever since this whole nightmare started - is catching up with him.  Which is why it takes him so long to realize that the loft is silent because there’s no heartbeat, no steady breathing, no movement in the bed next to him.

Derek lifts his head sharply, gazing at the empty space beside him. And he merely… stares for a while at the rumpled sheets, as if Stiles Stilinski is going to magically melt from them and reappear. But nothing happens.

The smell of sweat and sex and Stiles is still clinging to the bed - the sheets just barely warm. But there’s no one else in his loft or, as Derek lets his senses expand, in Stiles’ apartment below him. He waits. And waits. And strains his senses until he can hear every tenant moving about in the building - can hear a car backfiring two blocks away.

But still no Stiles.

Eventually Derek forces himself numbly to his feet, frowning at the room around him. He ignores the sinking feeling in his chest, and goes to shower. To clean the _scent_ of them off of him. He’ll have to wash the sheets at least twice too.

“Stupid,” he mutters darkly. “Fucking stupid.”

For once, the bond to his Alpha isn’t going haywire and bombarding him with empathic echoes. It’s a relief at least.

Derek doesn’t want to know what Stiles is thinking about him right now.

 

\--------------------4---------------------

 

Derek Hale… is _shady_ as fuck.

There’s no two ways about it. Stiles has known it for a while now. Derek Hale is a class-A suspicious character.

Stiles just… he hadn’t realized just _how_ suspicious before now.

After successfully avoiding his own apartment building for a full twenty-four hours, Stiles finds himself hunched over his laptop and his copious case notes, sequestered in the most isolated corner of the Beacon Hills Public Library that he could find. (Just in case the pattern of the past few weeks repeats itself and Derek Hale appears - _again._ ) He’s retreading old research ground after his unpleasant discovery; and after only two hours of sleep on Scott’s couch.

He knows the wikipedia entries and the anthropology articles on spirals in ancient art like the back of his hand. Stiles has read and reread and even edited a few of them over the years. But now he finds himself adding the specific triskele design to his research, pouring over each entry with narrowed eyes and twisted frown.

He knows that the spiral tattoo Derek has isn’t exactly indicative of guilt. There’s any number of reasons the man would get a tattoo like that - not the least of which being that the Alpha had changed his life in a significant, horrible way. It hadn’t exactly been kept a secret around Beacon Hills that their resident serial killer left a spiral-shaped calling card. The fact that Derek decided to tattoo that calling card on his body doesn’t _have_ to mean he’s involved.

But Stiles… Stiles has never had that much faith in people. His mind keeps repeating Allison’s warning over and over. _“He’s bad news,”_ she’d said. _“We think he has something to do with my aunt’s death.”_ Combined with him following Stiles and hiding his intentions…

It looks bad. Even to an optimist it would look bad.

There’s no discernable hidden meaning to either the spiral or the triskele that Stiles can find, however. For all that he looks, even on some less than reputable neo-pagan websites, the spiral is simply a design - vaguely symbolic to many cultures all across the globe. The triple spiral, triskele, is a bit more notable at least. It, too, has a worldwide history. Derek’s particular triskele matches more with the European version than the Asian triskele design. Derek’s triskele has its origins in pre-Celtic and Greek history. It’s a symbol of balance and trinity. It was even adopted by Christianity, and the wiki entry he’s scanning comes with picture after picture of adapted Holy Trinity triskele designs in church architecture.

There’s even a BDSM community triskele adaptation. And god, if _only_ all of this meant that Derek Hale was _kinky_ instead of possibly a serial murderer - or an accomplice.

Disheartened by the lack of relevant information, Stiles spends the next hour going over his case files on the Alpha, and, specifically, the notes he made after his interview with Derek. He has the phrase “why Laura Hale returned to BH” circled and underlined. The reason Derek gave - that his sister had come back to visit their uncle and check on their family’s holdings - had caught his attention. And now, looking at the totality of evidence from the case, he realizes exactly why that was.

They have a decent map of Laura Hale’s activities in Beacon HIlls from the evidence recovered from her hotel room. Small things like takeout menus, fliers, receipts, and her visitor's pass for Beacon Crossings long term care facility. But among all of these odds and ends is a crumpled list of names - all with the Harris surname.

She’d been looking for Adrian Harris.

Stiles clicks through to his father’s report on questioning Harris. Most of the previous deputies that had worked the case hadn’t paid the interview too much attention. In the grand scheme of things, there wasn’t anything remarkable about it at the time.

 _“Yes, she’d come to see me,”_ the transcript of Harris’ statement reads. _"Apparently she’d tracked down every Harris in Beacon Hills to find me. She was asking all kinds of questions about a woman I had met some years ago. ...No, no, I have no idea why. ... I can’t be expected to remember every woman I meet at a bar, Mister Stilinski. I told her what I could remember. Attractive woman in her mid-twenties. A friend of hers, I assumed. The most I remember was the necklace she was wearing. Miss Hale seemed quite_ **_interested_ ** _in it as well; a coat of arms pendant. Very old and ornate. It had some kind of… dog or a wolf or something on it. With a sun above it. I even drew it as best I could remember. After I told her about the necklace, she left. That was the only time I saw her.”_

Stiles’ old chemistry teacher had made it sound so mundane, as if it’d been nothing significant. But Adrian Harris had been a slimeball right up until the day the Alpha cornered him in his office, and Stiles wouldn’t trust the man’s statement in the slightest.

He pulls up the papers found in Laura’s hotel room again, searching through them until he finds the shitty drawing Harris had given the victim. Except this time, he recognizes it. He recognizes it because he’s seen it - and _recently_ too.

The drawing is little more than a scribbled mess, but the actual pendant is a pretty little thing. Made of gold and silver, and yes, with some kind of canine in the center, and a brilliant sun hanging over it. Stiles remembers how it glittered in the light of the Sheriff’s station when Allison came to see him. He especially remembers thinking how heavy it looked hanging around hers neck just after she’d inherited it. It had belonged to Kate Argent, the last victim in the Alpha’s first killing spree.

A quick search brings up the Argent family crest, and yes, it is the same coat of arms on Allison’s necklace. Laura had been looking for Kate Argent.

“Hales and Argents. _Again_ ,” Stiles mutters. He clenches his eyes shut to ward off the headache he can feel blooming at the base of skull. “It’s always the fucking Hales and Argents.” He absently clicks on one of the links, eyes skimming over the description of the crest and the abbreviated family history.

_Marie-Jeanne Valet took up her pike and faced down La Bête du Gévaudan. While history often credits Jean Chastel for the slaying of La Bête, the Argent family maintains that Marie-Jeanne Valet - dubbed the Maid of Gévaudan - killed La Bête and took up the name Argent after her victory._

Stiles blinks at the screen, backtracks, and rereads the passage once more. And then googles _La Bête du Gévaudan_ and spends at least 45 minutes researching that as well. By the end of it, Stiles leans back into his chair, rather than hunched over the table, frowning.

The story of _La Bête_ is… eerily familiar. Even some of the theories surrounding what _La Bête was_ are familiar. The man training a vicious animal to kill for him; the rabid local beast; the killer who used weapons made of claw and bone; even the belief that the killer was actually some kind of monster. And the more Stiles reads, the more it feels like some occult symbolism that the Alpha is aspiring towards.

He slumps down in his chair with a weary groan. One step forward, five steps back.

He had been so sure this whole mess had something to do with the Hale fire.

 _‘What if it still does?’_ he wonders. The thought has him bolting upright again, eyes darting over all of the spread out papers and the numerous tabs open on his laptop with a new light.

The first run of suspects includes two convicted arsonists, a man with an extensive juvenile record and textbook pyromania, a chemistry teacher who would easily know how to rig an arson, one of the contractors with a history of working on the Hale manor, and the actual investigator who ruled the fire as accidental. The other victims had been Kate and three of her security team from the Argent company. Even without definitive proof that the Hale fire was arson, the run of victims had opportunity and knowledge. And, if the near- _feud_ between the Hales and the Argents is reality, motive.

Stiles _would_ call the Alpha’s work an outright spree of revenge killings, if not for the deaths of Laura and Peter Hale and Peter’s nurse, Jennifer Kisler.

But it could be an accomplice of the (theorized) conspirators, out to silence them all when Laura started getting too close. Made to look mimic the legend of _La Bête_ as some sort of calling card.

The new set of murders don’t fit any of those theories, however.

“Anndd we’re back where we started,” Stiles sighs. “Okay. Okay. Focus. Run with what you have.” The most likely suspects under his theories would be the Argents - most likely Chris or Victoria - or…

Derek Hale. Who is, once again, _shady as fuck._

He circles Derek’s name with more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary. “I’m going to find out what you’re up to,” he mutters.

 

\--------------------5---------------------

 

As it turns out, unravelling the mystery of Derek Hale is harder than it looks. Stiles spends the rest of the week following-- no, _observing_ the man’s activities. He quickly learns that following Derek by day is pretty much a waste of time. He leaves their building exactly four times in five days. Three of those were to grab take-out. One was to a meeting with a local contractor, presumably for whatever renovations and repairs Derek has planned for their building. At night, however…

At night, his actions are so questionable that all it takes is seeing it once and Stiles is ready to proclaim Derek Hale as an accomplice, if not the Alpha himself.

At night, Derek Hale drives off into the outskirts of town, ditches his car and just… walks off into the woods. Or down dark alleys. Or into abandoned trainyards.

“He’s either Batman or a serial killer,” Stiles keeps muttering to himself with each nightly venture. “Probably a serial killer. Definitely a serial killer.”

And what really, _really_ drives Stiles up the wall? He can never track exactly where Derek Hale goes. Oh, he can tail him for a half hour, maybe. But after that?

Derek just _disappears_. He’ll cut down an alley or behind a warehouse. And by the time Stiles catches up to him he’ll just be _gone_. As if he’s just ceased to exist on the mortal plane or has _become the night_. And this may be paranoia speaking, but Stiles is pretty sure Derek is onto him. Because on some nights it seems like Derek purposefully leads him in circles before pulling his magical disappearing act.

What an asshole, making stalking him difficult.

By the time he slips into his father’s office at the end of the week, Stiles is frustrated and even more certain that Derek Hale is involved. His dad looks up as he drops the Alpha casefile onto his desk, eyebrow quirking.

“I’ve got something,” Stiles announces. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Sheriff Stilinski gives him a once over, before nodding to the chair. “Well, that’s more warning than you’ve given me in the past. Sit down, son.”

The Sheriff listens with breathtaking patience as he lays out his revelations over the past few days - Derek’s suspicious wanderings, the connection of victims two through eleven, and the strange confrontation between Chris Argent and Derek Hale. Stiles manages to keep his theories from spiralling _too_ much this time around, at the very least. And after he’s run out of coherent arguments, he watches his father flip through the casefile, looking over the corresponding evidence.

“It’s circumstantial,” the Sheriff admits finally. “But you may have a point.” And when Stiles perks up, he raises a hand to quell the excited grin fighting its way onto Stiles’ face. “I said _may._ I’ll agree that he should be brought in for questioning, however. It’s too convenient that we were couldn’t reach him after his sister’s death until the murders had stopped, and that he’s suddenly here in Beacon Hills when they start up again. What you’re giving me about the Hale fire is also the perfect motive _if_ you’re right.”

“So you’ll do it?” Stiles asks eagerly. “You’ll bring him in?”

“We’ll give him the voluntary option first,” Sheriff Stilinski answers. He leans back in his chair, now watching Stiles expectantly. There’s a moment of silence.

“What?”

“You’ve yet to get to the ‘but I’m not going to like it’ part of this conversation, Stiles.”

“Oh.” Shit, he hasn’t. “Uh, well, what did you expect?” he laughs nervously.

“I _expect_ to hear that my deputy has followed policy and a code of ethics in the course of his duty.” His father leans his elbows onto his desk, his gaze now firmly set to Parental Lie Detector setting. Shit.

“You uh. You might want to reexamine your expectations, then?”

“Stiles.”

He shrugs in what he hopes is a casual, not at _all_ guilty manner. “So… Derek Hale has a spiral tattoo. I saw it.”

“...Okay…” the Sheriff drawls. He looks confused for a moment, almost _innocent._ And then the comprehension slowly dawns on his face. “And _how_ did you see it?”

“I uh… I might have... sleptwithDerekHale?”

“ _Stiles!”_

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

**END CHAPTER 8.**


	9. Letting people down is my thing, baby (this town ain't big enough for two of us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek Hale is brought in in handcuffs. Stiles leaps to his feet the moment Derek appears in the doorway, flanked by Deputy Haigh and a weary looking Deputy Parrish. (Stiles absolutely does not notice so quickly because he’s been watching the door since the deputies left. Not at all.) “ _What are you doing?_ ” he hisses at them as they near. “This is a voluntary interview!”
> 
> “He assaulted me,” Haigh says with a nasty smile. Stiles ire ramps up just looking at it. He’d always known Haigh was a grade-A asshole, but his desire to punch the smile right off his face goes past that today. Why, he doesn’t want to think about.
> 
> Parrish’s frown at the declaration tells Stiles everything he needs to know. The resigned, guarded look in Derek’s eyes is only a bonus - and not a happy one. Stupid, rule-bending, bad cop posturing _bullshit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT DIDN'T TAKE ME A YEAR THIS TIME. (Small victories) And we're finally, FINALLY on the cusp of the werewolf reveal! Which I hope you all enjoy over this chapter and the next.
> 
>  **Warnings this chapter** for discussion of Kate and Derek's canon relationship, and all the awful things that implies.
> 
> I wanna take a second to thank everyone who has offered feedback, even in the tiniest of ways, on this fic. :D This is a labor of love, and it means everything to me that you guys enjoy this strange, halting ride. Thank you!
> 
> As always, you can come talk to me on [my tumblr](http://anamelesstraveler.tumblr.com/) if you want!

 

\--------------------1---------------------

 

Derek Hale is brought in in handcuffs. Stiles leaps to his feet the moment Derek appears in the doorway, flanked by Deputy Haigh and a weary looking Deputy Parrish. (Stiles absolutely does not notice so quickly because he’s been watching the door since the deputies left. Not at all.) “ _What are you doing?_ ” he hisses at them as they near. “This is a voluntary interview!”

“He assaulted me,” Haigh says with a nasty smile. Stiles ire ramps up just looking at it. He’d always known Haigh was a grade-A asshole, but his desire to punch the smile right off his face goes past that today. Why, he doesn’t want to think about.

Parrish’s frown at the declaration tells Stiles everything he needs to know. The resigned, guarded look in Derek’s eyes is only a bonus - and not a happy one. Stupid, rule-bending, bad cop posturing _bullshit_. “Get the handcuffs off him,” he orders.

“Last I checked, you weren’t above me on the chain of command, rookie.”

“No, but _I_ am, Deputy Haigh.” All of them flinch as the Sheriff materializes behind them, his face stern. “Handcuffs off him, Haigh. I’ll speak with you later.”

Haigh at least has the grace to keep his scowling subtle as he steps behind Derek. But Stiles isn’t imagining the unnecessary tug Haigh gives Derek’s arms as he unlocks the cuffs. Stiles clenches his fists, eyes narrowing, glaring at the man until he finally makes the retreat back towards his desk. “Sorry, man,” Stiles says as soon as the deputy is out of earshot. “It was supposed to be voluntary--”

“Let’s get this over with,” Derek interrupts. But he’s not speaking to Stiles. He’s not even _looking_ at Stiles. He’s looking straight past him at Sheriff Stilinski instead. He shoulders his way past without even the slightest acknowledgment. Stiles’ jaw clicks shut, stung by the cold reception.

“You okay?” Parrish asks him quietly, glancing from Stiles to Derek’s retreating back.

“Y-Yeah. Yeah it’s… no, it’s fine,” he stammers. But his reassurances sound flat even to his ears. The expression of sympathy that Parrish shoots him only brings a sour taste to his mouth.

Parrish pats his shoulder. “Come on. We can go watch.”

“ _Parrish_ ,” Stiles manages to gasp with dramatic flair. “That is downright sneaky of you. You, our golden boy deputy!”

“It’s not sneaky when we’re on the case,” Parrish argues. He ushers Stiles towards the interrogation room (a glorified conference room that they sectioned off into two rooms and stuck a viewing window in), not that he has to convince Stiles.

They slip into the observation booth just as Derek and the Sheriff are getting past the pleasantries. Stiles tunes out the reading of his rights during questioning and the official apologies for Haigh’s behavior. Instead he watches Derek. Stiles can actually see the man closing off. He’s starting to get a sense of his body language now (which has _nothing_ to do with his less than advisable fascination with the man - _nope_ ). Stiles has learned to gauge just how defensive Derek is in the tense line of his jaw, in the severe downward slash of his mouth.

“So uh,” Parrish begins, “what as that out there with Hale?”

For a moment, Stiles debates whether he should tell Parrish anything. But, in the end, he knows his fellow deputy is a good guy. Kind of unfailingly optimistic and loyal in a way that too few people are. It makes even Stiles’ cynicism waver.  “Surprised my dad hasn’t told you.”

“Ah, I’m not the lead on this case or anything. If it’s not pertinent, I don’t see why he would.”

“It’s… pertinent,” Stiles admits. He runs a hand through his hair. “I might have slept with the guy. And… then realize he could be involved after.”

Beside him, Parrish’s eyes go wide. “Like… like right after? So, what’d you do?”

Stiles winces. “Uh, well...”

“Did you… just run off?”

They share the next grimace. Because Stiles can’t even deny that he ran off like a complete coward. Under any normal circumstance it’d be definite grounds for Derek’s cold treatment of him. And then the next time they meet is when the man is being brought in for questioning? Under Stiles’ request?

Yeah, Stiles is an asshole. Even if it’s more _complicated_ than just him sneaking away after sex, he’s still an asshole.

“That’s rough, buddy,” Parrish says helpfully.

He sighs. “Thanks.”

His father’s voice drifts through the speakers, forcing them into silence. “Why don’t you tell me why you came back to town, Mister Hale.”

“I came back to clean up the estate. Too many of our family properties are struggling. Or defaulting altogether.” Derek’s word are perfectly civil. And yet his expression gives off all the impression of a cornered animal - poised but dangerous, looking for an opening.

“They’ve been failing for a while,” the Sheriff remarks. “Why now?”

He shrugs. “Ever since the fire, we let investors take care of them. We were hands off. I didn’t look at any of the reports until this year.” Derek doesn’t avert his eyes. He doesn’t even fidget. The only outward sign of _anything_ is the way his jaw clenches.

It’s so perfectly controlled that it can be nothing other than suspicious.

 _‘Get him, Dad,’_ Stiles silently urges.

Inside the next room, his father leans his elbows onto the table. “Look, son, I won’t lie to you.” There’s no missing the way Derek bristles at the familiarity. “The fact that we couldn’t reach you for more than a month after your sister’s death, only when the killings had stopped, and the fact that you show up in town just as they’re starting again… it’s suspicious. I need to know your whereabouts during the murders. Both six years ago and now.”

Where anyone else might be indignant about being implicated in a serial murder spree, Derek Hale barely even flinches. If anything, he only seems _exasperated._ “Six years ago, I was in New York,” he deadpans.

“Humor me, son. We need hard evidence of your whereabouts.”

“You can check the attendance records from Columbia. I had a volunteer job through them too, so they’ll have records of my time.”

“We’ll be sure to look into that,” Stilinski says. “And the recent murders? Specifically…” He glances through the paperwork in front of him. “The hours between 3 and 5 AM the night of the 29th, 6 and 9 PM the night of the 5th, and midnight and 2 AM on the 11th.”

Derek’s frown deepens. “I would’ve been in my building by then.”

“And can anyone corroborate this?”

“The building’s tenants, I guess.”

“But no one specifically.”

“If I’m not meeting with contractors or meeting the needs of my tenants, Sheriff, I keep to myself,” Derek stresses, sounding outright annoyed now.

Unperturbed, the Sheriff hums thoughtfully. “We’ll mark that down as ‘no concrete alibi’ then. You’ve been recently seen going into the Preserve, or into places you really shouldn’t be wandering at night. Care to tell me why?”

Derek’s eyes flick towards the window, as if he somehow senses that Stiles is there watching. Stiles fights the urge to duck out of sight, even though he knows there’s no way for Derek to see him. “Last I checked, walking at night wasn’t a crime.”

“It’s not,” Sheriff Stilinski replies. “But it is questionable when we have a serial murderer on the loose.” When Derek says nothing, he grabs up a pile of photos from the file instead. Each of them are laid out one-by-one on the table between them. “Laura Hale,” he says, gesturing to her picture. “Garrison Myers. Jeremy Holmes. Marcus Reddick. Paul Unger. Edward Cunningham. Adrian Harris. Jennifer Kisler. Peter Hale. Three members of Argent’s security team. And Kate Argent.”

And this time Derek does flinch. Parrish takes a step closer to the window. It feels like the entire room holds its breath, waiting. Sheriff Stilinski pauses, and Stiles can see the gears turning in his head, the detective in him going to work.

“Just looking at them, they all seem random. No common physicality, nothing obvious that links them. Except…” He pushes the photos of Peter,  Laura, and Jennifer forward. “Two of the three survivors of the Hale fire and a caretaker of one of them.” Next he pushes the photos of Myers and Cunningham. “The insurance investigator who ruled it an accident. The retired contractor who worked on your family’s home prior to the fire.” Harris, Holmes, Reddick, and Unger are next. “Three convicted arsonists and a chemistry teacher who we know Kate Argent approached.” And last, he taps the pictures of Argent and her bodyguards. “And… an Argent and her entourage. You see the connections we’re making?”

Derek has gone pale now, his eyes trained on the photos spread across the table. And Stiles isn’t the only one who notices his gaze lingering on one in particular.

His dad picks up Kate Argent’s picture, brandishing it pointedly. “It seems like there’s no love lost between you and the Argents. You want to explain to me how you knew Miss Argent?”

“I didn’t,” Derek hisses, but the waver in his voice makes it less than believable.

“Really? You seem to recognize her.” Stilinski sets the glossy photo back on the table and pushes it towards Derek. There’s no hiding the way the man’s hands curl into fists, physically shrinking away from it. “We know that she was living in Beacon Hills before the fire, and considering she approached Harris we figure she’s either the orchestrator of the fire or one of the main accomplices. You can imagine why we’d want to know her movements while she was in town. Who she talked to. Who she knew--”

“I didn’t know her,” the other man insists, weaker this time. And that is when Stiles knows something has gone wrong. Because the look on Derek’s face is not the look of a man caught in a lie. No, Stiles has seen that look on him, has seen the cold panic of his mind working its way through one lie and into another. No, _this_ is the same broken, hollow expression that Stiles had seen on him just days ago, back in his loft. It’s terror and knowing.

“I think we both know that’s a lie, son. Now why don’t you tell me, before I have to start asking around and find out from someone who saw you with her all those years ago.” It’s a longshot, really. A connection from twelve years ago is hard to prove, but if anyone can do it anywhere, it’s his dad in a small town like Beacon Hills.

Stiles just wishes he didn’t have such a bad feeling about it.

It seems like Derek is going to refute the accusations for a moment. The room is filled with tense, oppressing silence as he gazes hollowly at Kate Argent’s photo captured face. And then he gently, as though the item might come alive and bite him, pushes it back across the desk.

“We were in a relationship, before,” Derek confesses.

The Sheriff immediately leans forward. “Before she was killed.”

Derek heaves a sigh, like his next words physically pain him. It’s not until after they leave his mouth that Stiles realizes that might be true. “No, I mean… before the fire.”

The gravity of the admission dawns on Stiles about the exact same moment it does on his father. “Son, you would have been…”

“Just turned sixteen,” Derek finishes for him.

“That would have made her approximately twenty-five, correct?”

“I guess. She never told me.”

“And what was the nature of your relationship?”

Derek’s expression twists. “Sexual.”

There’s a moment where none of them dares to speak. The look of horror that spreads across Parrish’s face is exactly how Stiles feels in that moment. Inside the interrogation room, his dad leans his elbows on the table. His frown has taken on a different edge now.

“When did Kate Argent first approach you, Mister Hale?”

“I didn’t know her as Kate Argent, then,” Derek answers quietly. “She told me her name was Kate Mitchell. She came to one of my games, said she was impressed. She said… a lot of things. And I--” he cuts off, something hollow and terrible in his eyes. “I was so fucking _stupid._ ”

“And why do you say that, son?” The Sheriff prods, his tone more gentle this time.

“I thought I loved her.“ Derek’s voice has gone quiet and small. “So when she was interested in my family, I told her. When she asked about the house, I told her. I’m the reason she knew when everyone would be home. And how to get into the house to rig the fire.”

The Sheriff folds his hands on the table. “Did she force you to let her in the house?”

Derek’s frown only deepens, grows more self-loathing. “If she had, I could at least say I tried to stop her. No, she only asked questions. She only seemed _interested_. She always made it clear what would happen if she lost interest. By then, I-- I answered every question. Like an idiot child. It’s my fault,” he says. And now he drops his gaze to his hands. “I never… told Laura. I never told anyone. Maybe if I had, Laura would have known it was my fault, and never came back.”

Stiles turns on heel and exits the booth, ignoring the hollow, sick feeling growing in his stomach. He doesn’t need to hear anymore to know they aren’t arresting Derek Hale today. Stiles returns to his desk to wait out the rest of the interview.

His hands shake as he sorts through the pile of reports on his desk, and he has to stop and take a steadying breath.

The interview answered a lot of questions, sure. It proves that the Alpha killings are intrinsically linked with the Hale fire, either for revenge or to cover up the crime itself. It proves that Kate Argent had been the likely mastermind behind the fire, even though they’re lacking in hard evidence at the moment. It explains why Derek and the Argents don’t like each other.

It also makes Stiles want to drag Kate Argent from her grave and set _her_ on fire, but no one needs to know that.

Stiles can’t say he can see Derek, a man who seems to have internalized what happened to him and his family, turning that grief into a bloody revenge. Not anymore. Not after this. However, nothing in Derek’s statement absolves him of suspicion. A gut feeling doesn’t trump hard evidence.

Not that they have any of that either. And no grounds to request a warrant with all their speculation and circumstantial evidence.

Still, Stiles can’t help but feel a teeny, miniscule, little bit _terrible_ about how he’s handled this whole thing. In the past week Stiles has slept with the man, left him almost immediately after, discovered a - shaky at best - connection to the Alpha, stalked him (let’s be honest), had him dragged into the station for questioning, and forced him to relive what was _clearly_ an awful, manipulative relationship that resulted in the death of his family.

Stiles quietly lowers his head to the desk, and groans.

“You’re an awful person, Stiles,” he mutters.

By the time Derek and his father come out of the interrogation room, Stiles knows what he has to do. He keeps his eyes averted as his father wraps up the interview and points Derek towards the door. With every step he approaches, Stiles heart races faster, until Derek is within feet of him.

“Derek,” he calls, as gently as he can. The man comes to a stop near his desk, but doesn’t look at him. It’s an opening, though, and one that Stiles will take. “I-I…” he licks his lips, fingers jittering against the desk. “I saw your tattoo, you know, when… well, after. Both of them. You know, they’re, uh, _significant_ to the case. I had to follow that line of investigation.” The explanation comes out of his mouth easier than expected. But it’s only after he says it that realizes _it isn’t an apology_.

 _Shit._ “I mean--”

“You could have asked,” Derek replies, in a voice so cold that Stiles actually flinches.

“What, and have you lie again? Seriously, Derek? All you’ve done when I’ve asked questions is _lie._ ”

“Maybe because it’s none of your _business_ , did you consider that?”

Stiles levers himself to his feet, the chair colliding with the filing cabinet behind his desk with a metallic crash. “I’m an investigator in this case, Derek. It’s my _job_ to make this my business. I’m trying to find out who killed your sister!” No, no, _no,_ this is not how he wanted this conversation to go! And yet the words fly from his mouth before he can call them back, his apology buried by his agitation.

“And accusing me of doing it!”

“You won’t be accused of anything without hard evidence,” Stiles hisses, leaning in close. “But you know _something_ \- you’re up to _something_ \- and you’re terrible fucking liar about it.”

“What I’m doing has nothing to do with your case,” Derek growls, proving Stiles’ point about how _awful_ a liar he is by getting far too defensive. Stiles is entirely ready to call him on it, but the words fail him as soon as Derek cuts him off: “Stop following me, Stiles.”

So he _had_ known Stiles was following him the whole time. He tries to come up with a defense for that, and can find none.

“Stay away from me,” Derek says, his voice pitching lower. “If you keep it up, I can’t promise you won’t get hurt.”

“I-Is that a threat?” he manages to sputter. He _is_ , he’s being _threatened_ right here in the Sheriff’s station.

“Just leave me alone, Stiles,” the man snaps. He makes no effort to mitigate his subtle threat. Instead letting it hang in the air as he makes his exit. Stiles is left standing there watching Derek leave in his cloud of angst, mouth hanging open as he frantically casts about for something withering to shout at Derek. When nothing comes, he lets a wordless, utterly frustrated snarl instead.

“He’s quite the character.” His father steps up beside him, jolting him from his internal tirade. “And too suspicious for his own good. Does he realize he stalks around like some kind of predator?”

Stiles chokes back a mean laugh. “Thought you said we don’t judge crime on someone’s appearance.”

“Oh, we don’t. And if that weak alibi of his actually checks out, then we’ll have to look elsewhere.” The Sheriff crosses his arms, his frown stormy. “You were right, though. He’s hiding something.”

“He’s a terrible liar. Did you see how awful he is at it?”

“Oh, I saw it,” his dad agrees. His eyes are still trained on the door, as if he can still see Derek Hale and somehow puzzle out what he’s hiding just from looking.

Stiles lowers his voice. “Do you think he did it?”

It takes his dad a second to answer. “Do I think that Derek Hale ripped seventeen people to bloody shreds - including his sister and probably his uncle? No.” He clicks his tongue, seemingly at his own thoughts. “But I won’t rule him out until we get evidence in.”

“I don’t believe he could murder his family in cold blood,” Stiles declares. “You saw him in there. He blames himself for the fire that took out most of them.”

“Whether or not you believe it, son, the evidence will tell us eventually. Murder is a strange, disgusting business. People surprise you with how inhuman they are. What lengths they’ll go to. Or how twisted up their logic becomes - especially people in situations like he was in at sixteen. We’ll just have to wait out the investigation and see.” The Sheriff turns his gaze to Stiles, with a frown on his face that makes Stiles’ insides shrivel. “You sure you’re going to be alright on this case?”

“ _What_?” Stiles stands a little straighter, squaring up for another fight. “Of course! I told you I was.”

“I know what you told me, son,” his father soothes, somehow managing to be both gentle and stern at that same time. “I know we had an agreement about your health. But this _thing_ … this hang-up you have with Derek Hale, it’s not healthy.” He claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “It’s a dangerous line, Stiles. Even if he is innocent.”

“You’re right,” Stiles rushes to say, if only to stop the lecture before it can continue. “You know, you’re totally right, Dad. It was stupid. I mean, I knew that after it happened, uh, even before I saw his tattoos and made the connection.”

“Right.”

“Right, so it’s not gonna happen again. No worries, right?”

“If it turns out he’s innocent, yes. But if he’s not…” The look Sheriff Stilinski gives Stiles then is everything he dreads, even as an adult. “We’ll be having a Talk about professionalism. Okay?”

Stiles winces, but relents, “Sure thing. I promise.”

 

\--------------------2---------------------

 

_Another failure. Another human’s last gurgling breath, this time choking on black blood._

_Too weak. Too wrong. And still alone._

**_He’s still so alone._ **

_He hates being so alone. He needs his Pack. The last Beta stolen by an intruder. Hiding in his territory, stealing his Pack, leaving him only to these weak, unsuitable humans._

_He hunts._

_Finding His Beta is easy. The scent is all over the territory. In the Preserve. In the town. His Beta has been looking for him._

_Yes, yes, they’re Pack. He should be._

_But there’s something else in his Beta’s scent. It’s the scent of another._

_Of an Alpha._

_His triumphant howl breaks through the night._

 

\--------------------3---------------------

 

Stiles might be ready to admit… that his obsession with Derek Hale has reached a point where it’s become a problem. He _might_ admit that it’s reached the point where he can’t even go to a bar after work with some of the deputies without thinking about god _damned Derek Hale._

It’s an obsession, and not an _infatuation_. Infatuation has a certain affection to it that Stiles doesn’t want to consider. So no, it’s not an infatuation, but a professional obsession with an extremely attractive and suspicious man. And Stiles has - or his dick has, at least - tricked himself into translating that into something sexual.

And that professional obsession is exactly why Stiles can’t stop thinking about Derek Hale’s questioning earlier that day and why remembering the haunted gleam in his eyes makes Stiles lose all appetite for greasy bar food and weak, acceptable after-work alcohol. That _completely professional_ obsession is why Stiles bows out with barely even a buzz and finds himself standing out on the dark street, wondering why the hell he does this to himself.

He breathes an aggravated sigh into the night air. Stupid. This is _stupid_ . Derek’s attractive, yes. Attractive and fascinating and _broken_ and Stiles wants to shake him as much as he wants to help him. (Not that the infuriating man would let him. He’d just lie through his teeth and incriminate himself even more in the process.)

But attractive or not, Stiles shouldn’t be letting himself get hung up like this. He should be solving this case - not chasing Derek Hale’s every suspicious movement. And he definitely shouldn’t be letting himself agonize over a single ill-advised (but _fantastic_ ) hook up.

 _Jungle_ is only a few blocks away. Stiles has half a mind to go drown out his circling thoughts with stronger alcohol and a firm body writhing against his - to music or to the sounds of their own gasps and moans. Anything to get him to stop - stop thinking about broken, dark-haired men and the fact that Stiles feels _wrong_ , and has felt that way for weeks. Ever since that night in the woods, Stiles has felt like something has gone off the rails, and if he stops and lets himself think about it long enough, his mind wanders to black dogs and hulking, red-eyed beasts in the shadows - vivid dreams that might not actually be _dreams_ and wolves in his bed and other things that make Stiles’ heart pound.

Yeah, he definitely needs to go somewhere and drown out his thoughts.

The night is cool and clear, and he hopes the walk to _Jungle_ will give him time to work out his nervous energy. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and sets off, telling himself that while the day has been shit, it’s going to end with at least a good buzz and maybe even a handie in a club’s back hallway.

Stiles makes it most of the way to the club. Close enough that the silence of the deserted street gives way to the faintest hint of a pounding bass. _Jungle’s_ in one of those strange, almost haunted little pockets of Beacon Hills that got left behind during the last recession. A warehouse district where business dried up long ago, and storage units, junkyards, and places like _Jungle_ rose up to take their place. Like greenery growing up to devour the the industrial bones of Beacon Hills.

And that’s when the growling starts.

Stiles freezes. At first his mind tries to rationalize that it’s the rumbling of a car coming up behind him, because it’s too loud and too _big_ to be anything else.

But it doesn’t _sound_ like any car Stiles has ever heard.

Cold dread settles in his belly, the feeling of _wrongwrongwrong_ welling up inside him all over again. And when he peers over his shoulder he finds that it’s not a car behind him at all. It’s…

It’s the _thing_ from the forest, creeping out of the alley like a thing straight from his nightmares - the animal that he had almost managed to convince himself was a bear. But it’s _not_ a bear. It’s not a bear because Stiles isn’t looking at it from across a dark valley anymore. He’s looking at it from fifteen feet away as it comes out of an alleyway onto a _Beacon Hills road._ It slinks out onto the street on all fours, but the shape of its body is wrong for a four-legged animal. It’s _huge_ and covered in thick dark fur that gleams red and brown under the streetlights. The animal shakes its massive head, broad snout tipping up and its black lips curling back to reveal wicked looking teeth.

Stiles is motionless, rooted in place as he stares in horror at the creature. It doesn’t feel real. As if his eyes and his mind have different ideas of what is in front of him.

And then the animal catches sight of him, eyes burning bloody red, and it lets out a deep, gut-wrenching snarl. The thick muscles lining its body bunches, preparing to spring.

And Stiles knows he has to run. Or else he’s going to be mauled right there in the street.

His hand flies to his belt as he turns to run, searching for the service weapon that isn’t there - that he left in his _Jeep, damnit!_ The sound of claws scraping the pavement sends his heart hammering against his ribs, the only warning he has before there’s a thundering of breath and the heavy rush of paws behind him. He might scream, but the fear and the blood rushing in his ears drowns the sound out if he does. The only thing rising from the animal haze that’s overtaken him is the thought that he has to find _people_ . He has to make it to _Jungle_ , where there are _people_ that can help him.

But the creature is quick, far, far too quick for his measly human speed to outrun. It overtakes him easily, rounding him off in the street, claws gouging marks into the concrete as it skids around him. Stiles barely stops himself from tripping face-first into the pavement in his effort to backpedal away. The creature, now within five feet of him, is massive, with jaws that could wrap around Stiles’ whole side and crack his ribs open without even trying, its fangs as long as Stiles’ palm. And yet it doesn’t lunge for the easy target. It only paces closer, ears flicked forward and mouth open in a wolfish snarl as Stiles scurries back from it.

Stiles does the only thing he can, and ducks down the nearest alley, knocking down a pile of trash and scraps in his path in a vain hope of slowing the creature down. His mind is whirling into overdrive now, reeling even as the fear commands his legs to run as fast as they can carry him. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not _again_.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he wheezes, tearing into the backstreet and down another alley. He thinks he can hear people - just out of reach, but _there_ . But whatever hope he has is squashed within seconds as the creature leaps clear over him into his path, landing with a bone-rattling _thump_ in front of him. The terror is a cold rush through his veins. He’s so close! _Jungle_ is only another block from here. _Safety_ is so close--

It’s herding him away from people, his brain supplies, a little hysterically. It’s trying to isolate him from “the pack.” To corner him like prey.

So Stiles turns and runs in the opposite direction into the maze of dark, deserted backstreets away from the safety of other people. The beast stalks him, but doesn’t lunge, waiting to see what he’ll do. A fire escape catches his eye, and he clambers up the ladder. Outrunning it has proven useless so far. Once onto the grate, Stiles pulls the ladder up after him, and peers over the railing.

The creature is a dark shape below him, a black mass of shadow and fur in the alley that snarls and skitters below the fire escape, peering up at him with eyes the glow like red embers in the darkness. Stiles’ hands tighten around the railing. His lungs ache to draw breath. His knees feel weak now that the he has a second to do more than attempt to run for his life.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he gasps incredulously.

The beast gazes up at him.

“No, fuck you! You _stay_ down there.” It doesn’t seem to want to listen. Because suddenly the creature’s eyes are getting _closer_ as it slowly stands on two legs, reaching up towards the fire escape Stiles is perched on.

It has hands, Stiles realizes numbly.

Not paws. _Hands._

His mind whirls. _‘Not an animal,’_ it whispers. _‘Monster._ **_Beast._ ** _’_

Those hands wrap around the bottom of the ladder, claws glinting in the darkness. And then the beast starts to pull. The metal creaks and groans. The bolts on the ladder start to pop. Stiles has a vain hope that the ladder will be the only casualty here, but then the animal - the _creature_ \- grasps the platform supports and proceeds to rip it from the building. The entire thing tips; Stiles clutches the railing in a white-knuckled grip, leaning away to keep from being flung from it. The whole thing is going to come down in a matter of seconds.

Time seems to crawl - the creature gets closer as the fire escape slowly topples. Stiles is held, mesmerized by its burning eyes and glinting fangs. It’s pulling him down, black lips curling into a hungry, monstrous grin.

And then Stiles leaps, plants his feet on the railing and jumps as far as his legs can manage. He doesn’t think of anything past the beast’s powerful maw. The only flicker of regret comes in the mere instant before he hits the ground.

He lands wrong, stumbling over the scrap and the trash, the force of the landing rattling his bones. His knees scrape the pavement, but the burst of pain is nothing to his racing, terrorized heart. The fire escape crashes to the ground a moment later with an ear-splitting shriek of metal. And under it, the deep yelp of the beast as it fails to dodge out of the way.  Stiles braves looking back, only to see the glint of metal and the thrashing shape beneath the fallen fire escape.

It’s the only chance he’s going to get, and so he bolts off down the alley, ignoring the shooting pains in his right leg.

The alley opens up onto a barren backlot dotted with cars - an abandoned space used for parking nowadays. There is, in line with Stiles’ colossal lack of luck, not a single person in sight. But there’s a streetlight overhead and there - _there!_ Just meters from him is his Jeep.

He’s never been so happy to see his baby.

There’s a vicious snarl and a squeal of metal as Stiles dashes across the lot. He doesn’t even bother with slowing to a stop, merely stumbling right into the Jeep’s door with a deafening thud. The mere seconds it takes to unlock the door seem like an eternity, stretching ever closer to his impending death. “Come on, come on, start the car,” Stiles hisses fervently to himself as he climbs inside. His hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, almost dropping them in his attempt to shove it into the ignition.

He never makes it. Something slams into the side of the Jeep with enough force to throw Stiles sideways. The gearshift digs into his ribs, choking off the panicked scream as the entire vehicle rocks. The keys are lost somewhere on the floor in the dark, and Stiles scrambles blindly for them. And when he looks up--

Red eyes are peering at him through the window.

Stiles’ heart goes careening to a halt, his body frozen in terror. The beast gazes back at him.

And then it rears back, and slams into his Jeep once more. His body jolts across the bench seat, shoulder slamming into the passenger door. He’s not given a chance to recover before another collision actually makes the Jeep rock onto two wheels. His keys are forgotten, the burn in his shoulder ignored, as his focus turns onto the service pistol under the seat.

Stiles gropes frantically for the lockbox, voice lodged in his throat. His breath sounds thunderous to his own ears, his movements feel just seconds too sluggish. It’s either get his gun and shoot the creature or let it tip his whole Jeep over - or let it wrench the door off and drag him out.

His fingers stumble over the passcode, but his hands are steady as he grasps the pistol inside and levels the weapon at the window. The beast is rearing back, winding up for the next charge. Stiles aims for the head, hopefully an eye. He breathes fast and sharp, and then he takes one deep gulp of air. Exhales. And begins to squeeze the trigger.

A Howl rends the air - deep and booming, like it’s right in Stiles’ ear and yes, definitely a _Howl_ rather than a benign howl. His entire body down to his bones seems to jolt with the sound, his grip on the gun faltering.

A dark shape comes flying into view, smashing into the creature’s flank. It lets out a shocked, vicious roar, massive head turning to bite at the smaller form attacking it. There’s a struggle outside Stiles’ Jeep, the two silhouettes thrashing and snarling. The newcomer is smaller and faster, and… more human-shaped. Stiles watches as the vague shape in the fogged up window leaps onto the beast’s back, slashing at what Stiles assumes is its throat. Until the beast shakes them off, tossing them to the pavement with a low whine. And then it moves out of Stiles’ sight, and all goes quiet.

Stiles sits up straighter, eyes frantically casting about for a sign of the creature. His body feels numb and hypersensitive all at once, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The silhouette stepping up to the driver’s side makes him nearly leap out of his skin, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. He raises his gun a few inches in warning.

But the thing - the _person_ on the other side of the glass only lifts their hand and taps gently. “It’s gone,” they announce. And Stiles _recognizes_ that voice.

“ _Derek?_ ” he pants.

“Open the door, Stiles.”

Stiles doesn’t move right away, and keeps his gun level with Derek’s chest. But once his racing heartbeat stops drowning out his own thoughts, he scoots close enough to unlock the door.

It opens slowly, as if Derek is acutely aware that sudden moves might get him shot. Other than the slightest glisten of sweat on his face, Derek looks remarkably unaffected by the _nightmare_ that’s just occurred. He barely seems to be out of _breath_ after wrestling with that…

Stiles’ mind forms the word, but it gets lodged in his throat. _No. Absolutely not possible._

“This is why I said not to follow me,” Derek drawls.

Stiles has the sudden, nearly undeniable urge to pistol whip him. “You--!” he seethes. “You can’t-- ‘Stay away from me or you’ll get hurt’ is a _threat_ , Derek, not a warning! That’s a ‘stay away or I’ll make you regret it!’ It does _not_ cover being chased through the streets and nearly getting mauled to death by whatever the fuck that thing was!”

Derek arches his brows, not even bothered by his tirade. Damn him. “Go home, Stiles.”

“Oh, don’t you dare pull that shit right now,” Stiles spits. He goes to flail his hands, nearly forgetting his pistol which glints under the orange streetlamp. Derek flinches, nearly imperceptibly. He doesn’t call attention to it, but the way his eyes track the weapon has Stiles making a show of clicking the safety back on and setting it on the driver’s seat anyway. “This is not the time for you to be all ‘this isn’t your concern, Stiles,’” he pitches his voice lower, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. A poor mockery of Derek’s gruff, macho act. Derek isn’t impressed, which is no surprise. “That thing almost _killed me!_ You don’t get to brush me off. What the hell was it? And why did it come after me?”

“Stiles--” Derek begins with a strained grimace.

“I swear to god, if the next thing you say isn't an explanation…”

“I can’t tell you that. No,” he insists when Stiles growls at him for it. “I _can’t,_ Stiles. Don’t ask me that. You need to go home.” His eyes drift towards the alleyway nearest them. The hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands on end. “I have to go after them. Go home.”

“I…” A touch to his arm has Stiles flinching. His knees are shaking, he realizes abruptly.

“Did you hear me?” Derek asks, eyes intent as they bore into his own. “Go. Home.” He doesn’t wait for Stiles’ answer this time. He leaves Stiles there, dashing off down the alley in search of... it.

And then Stiles is alone. Derek’s pounding footsteps fade into the distance, until the only sound is the electric buzz of the streetlight above him.

He collapses again his Jeep as the adrenaline finally drains out of him.

He’s not sure how he finds the strength to drive home.

 

\-----------------------------------------

**END CHAPTER 9.**


End file.
